The room was full. Miss Amelia and her hospital bed occupied the whole of one end, and the rest of them sat in an awkward half square around her, in miserably uncomfortable metal folding chairs. Three lawyers formed a clump on the left side, Erik and Marie sat on the right side, and Logan sat in the middle, looking once again as if he were armed with thunderbolts.
He’d dressed for the occasion in a pair of jeans, a deep green shirt, and His Manliness actually sported a belt today, though no socks.
Marie found herself unaccountably fascination with the way a light sprinkling of dark hair curled at his ankles.
Miss Amelia’s precious wallaby eyes were bright, and though her knitting basket was conspicuously absent this morning, she twirled her IV cord in her right hand. This made Marie nervous; she kept expecting it to fly out of the old lady’s arm and thwack somebody in the face.
Miss Amelia had come to some mysterious decision and called them all here with her attorneys, the youngest of who had just passed out Styrofoam cups of coffee from Joe to Go.
Marie hid a smile as he dunked the end of his ice blue silk tie in his own java while reaching for a packet of sugar. He wrung it out under the disapproving gaze of the senior suits.
She took a sip of her own coffee as Miss Amelia got down to business. “Thank you all for coming here this morning. I’ve reached a decision over the past few days regarding my late husband’s collection of paintings. As you all know, they are now worth a great deal of money, and I don’t take their disposition lightly.”
Erik Lehnsherr folded his hands across his lap and pursed his smug lips.
“These gentlemen,” Miss Amelia indicated the clump of attorneys, “are from the law firm I retain, Smith and Drake.”
They nodded. “Gifford Smith,” said the most senior of them, a man with a gaunt face and bushy gray eyebrows.
“Andrew Gillespie,” the middle one stated. He possessed square, forgettable features and sported gold mallard cuff links.
“Bobby Drake,” said the youngest one, he of the caffeinated tie. His blue eyes held a twinkle to which Marie couldn’t help but respond.
“The Third,” added Smith. “Robert Drake III.”
Drake shrugged and sipped his coffee.
Amelia turned her head in Logan’s direction, and he introduced himself. He didn’t go out of his way to avoid eye contact with Marie, but when he glanced her way his expression was cool and dismissive.
Erik was next. “Honored to be in attendance,” he declared, in a voice like plum jam.
“I’m sure,” the old lady murmured. “Gentlemen,” she turned toward the lawyers, “why don’t we begin.”
Gifford Smith retrieved a sheaf of papers from his briefcase, stood, and buttoned his jacket.
“It is Mrs. Xavier’s fondest wish that the collection of paintings by her late husband, Charles Xavier, be cared for properly and not simply sold at auction to the highest bidder. The collection has great historical and educational value, and she wishes it to remain intact.” Smith cleared his throat and took a sip of his coffee before continuing.
“Mrs. Xavier’s logical direct heir is her grandson, Mr. Logan Howlett Xavier, and it was her original intention to leave the paintings to him. However—“ he looked up with a puzzled frown at Logan. “Mr. Logan Howlett Xavier has indicated a lack of interest in this inheritance, which causes her concern.”
Logan met the attorney’s gaze with one of supreme indifference, and it was Smith who looked away first.
“Mrs. Xavier recognizes that her grandson has every right to dismiss her wishes…”
Now it was Logan’s turn to frown, and the lawyer’s to look bland.
“…but does ask the he educate himself about the collection before he makes his final decision. To this end, since representatives of West Point College have indicated great interest in acquiring the Xavier paintings, our client asks that all parties present consider the following proposal.”
He took another sip of coffee and looked at Marie now. “Professor Marie D’Ancanto is in the process of completing a definitive treatise on the life and work of the late Charles Xavier. She is, in Mrs. Xavier’s opinion, an expert on his paintings.”
A feeling of foreboding stole over Marie, and a sidelong glace at Logan found his eyes narrowed and darker than an angry animal’s.
“Professor D’Ancanto is offering a seminar on the work of Charles Xavier this semester at West Point College. It is Mrs. Xavier’s suggestion that her grandson be given special dispensation by the college to enroll in this course.”
Logan made a strangled sound, and Marie opened her mouth to protest, but the lawyer held up his hand. “Please allow me to finish before voicing any objections.”
“If Logan Howlett Xavier applies himself to his studies, and makes an ‘A’ in the course, then he will still inherit. If he does not choose to take the course seriously, and makes a ‘B’ or below, then the collection will be turned over to the West Point College Museum of Fine Arts, along with a stipend for its care.”
Smith cleared his throat. “The reasoning behind Mrs. Xavier’s plan in simple. Logan will be exposed to the full body of the work in form and content, but it will be his decision and his alone as to whether or not he works hard enough to keep it. If he does not, at least he will know what it is he’s giving away.
“Mrs. Xavier has worked with Professor D’Ancanto extensively over the past few months, and judges her to be a young woman of integrity and fairness. She trusts her not to allow the college’s interests to sway her objectivity in grading.”
Smith straightened his papers and his lips, and sat down again. For a long moment, nobody said a word.
Marie searched for a tactful approach to express her shock and discomfort with the entire situation.
Logan, take her seminar? Logan and his invisible friend, machismo, unnerving her every other day in the classroom? Miss Amelia had to be kidding. But one look at the old lady’s sweetly determined face told Marie she wasn’t. In fact, she looked pretty pleased with herself.
Marie glanced at Erik, whose formerly pursed lips had widened into a delighted smirk. Uh-oh.
She started to open her mouth to say something, anything to put a stop to this gruesome proposition, but hadn’t even gotten a word out when Logan began to laugh.
Rich, hearty, and completely unamused echoes of his mirth filled the room.
She herself was leaning more toward tears, but she couldn’t really blame him. This was a situation so unbelievable, and so somehow gothic, that extreme reactions were warranted.
Yet his laughter also seemed disrespectful, not only to his grandmother and her wishes, but to Marie herself. He obviously doubted her ability to be objective, and found the idea of taking her class ridiculous.
Well, when she thought about the oversize Logan and his attitude, squished into one of those chairs with the mini desktops attached, it was funny. Especially since he’d be surrounded by twenty-year-old college girls--- oh, heaven help her. She’d have to teach on an ark to survive the buckets of drool. No, it was out of the question!
“Logan,” said Miss Amelia in sweet tones, “you find my proposal amusing?”
He looked her in the eye. “Yes, ma’am, I do.”
“And why is that?”
“First of all, it’s fiendish.”
She grinned. “Why, thank you.”
“Second, I have serious doubts about that woman’s objectivity, and third, I have no desire to take her course.”
Marie stood. “This woman has a name, and I resent your comment on my objectivity!”
“You’re wrong, Logan,” said his grandmother. “I’ve been around many more years than you, and I’m an excellent judge of character. As for your desire to study… I know you’ve never been bookish, my dear. But”---and she seemed to shrink and pull helplessness over her like a quilt—“I’m asking you please, to do this as a favor to me. Look at it as… my last request.”
“Amelia!” Logan exploded. He cast a glance of sheer frustration at her.
But in his eyes, Marie saw love and regret—and guilt. Oh, this was bad. If Logan folded, there was no way she’d get out of it gracefully.
She had to wave a red flag in front of the bull now, or shed be stuck facing his horns every day. And she’d rather teach hara-kiri with a rusty razor blade than art history to Logan.
Ignoring Erik’s kick at her ankle, she said, “I don’t feel comfortable with this situation, Miss Amelia. The teacher-student relationship can be adversarial enough. Starting it with reluctance and suspicion is just not a good idea.”
“Nonsense,” Erik broke in. “That doesn’t have to be the case. And Marie is a fine, up-standing young woman. I, too, object to any aspersions being cast on her character…”
Well, that’s certainly ironic, since you’re a walking aspersion yourself. Marie wanted to kick him right back, but maintained her dignity.
The chair looked smug and that bothered her. What was the old warthog up to now?
Logan remained silent, so it was time to get back to the flag-waving. “The problem, as I see it, lies more in Logan’s attitude toward me and my class.”
He turned those caramel eyes on her, and she raised her chin. “I don’t need or want to contend with hostility and disinterest from a student on a daily basis.”
“I understand your concern, dear,” said Miss Amelia. “But my Logan will behave himself, won’t he?” She cast a sharp glace at him.
“Marie,” added Erik, “surely you’re not calling your own excellent teaching skills into question?” He folded his hands over his lap again. “Besides, the boy looks fairly harmless underneath all that hair. It’s not as if he’s going to bite, after all.”
‘The boy’ slowly turned his head toward the chair and bared his teeth.
An alarmed look crossed Erik’s face, and he sat up a little straighter in his chair.
“Looks as if we’re boxed in, don’t it, darlin’?” said Logan.
She folded her arms and met his wicked gaze. “I suppose so.” But what will remain of the box when we’re finished?
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Author's Chapter Notes:
This week kind of got away from me a bit so I wasn't able to post as much as I would have liked. Sorry. I did, however, get some writing done last night and I will be posting a few short chapters over the next few days. :)