It had to be you | Page 9

fact that your father had some financial setbacks these past few
years?"

"Not the details. We didn't speak very frequently."

They had been completely estranged for almost ten years, from the time she was eighteen
until she had returned to the States after Arturo's death. After that, they'd met
occasionally when he came to Manhattan on business, but she was no longer a timid,
overweight child he could bully, and their encounters had been angry ones.

Although her father kept mistresses and married showgirls, his own impoverished
childhood had made him crave respectability, and her lifestyle mortified him. He was
violently homophobic, as well as being contemptuous of the arts. He hated the newspaper
and magazine stories that would occasionally appear about her and declared that her
associations with "fruits and flakes" made him look like a fool in front of his business
associates. Again and again he ordered her to return to Chicago and take over as his
unpaid housekeeper. If it had been love that had motivated his offer, she would have done
as he'd asked, but Bert had merely wanted to control her, just as he'd controlled everyone
else around him.

He'd remained tough and uncompromising to the end, using his terminal illness as a
bludgeon to remind her of what a disappointment she had been to him. He hadn't even let
her come to visit him in Chicago when he was dying, saying he didn't want any goddamn
vigils. In their last telephone conversation, he'd told her she was his only failure.

As she blinked her eyes against a fresh surge of tears, she realized that Brian Hibbard was
still speaking. "� so your father's estate is not as large as it was during the eighties. He
directed that this house be sold, with the proceeds making up your sister's trust find. His
condo isn't to be put on the market for at least a year, however, so you and your sister can
have the use of it until then."


"A condo? I don't know anything about that."

"It's not far from the Stars Complex. He�uh�kept it for private use."

"For his mistresses," Phoebe said flatly.

"Yes, well�It's been vacant for the past six months, ever since his illness. Unfortunately,
those are the only properties not connected with the Stars that he held on to. His financial
situation isn't entirely bleak, however."

"I wouldn't think so. His football team must be worth millions."

"It's quite valuable, although it, too, is having financial difficulties." Something in her
expression must have given away her feelings because he said, "You don't like football?"

"No, I don't." She had spoken with too much intensity, and he was regarding her
curiously. Quickly, she gave an indolent wave of her hand. "I'm more the uptown-gallerydinner-
at-Le Cirque-before-an-evening-of-experimental-theater type. I eat tofu, Mr.
Hibbard."

She thought the remark was pretty darned cute, but he didn't even smile. "It's hard to
believe that Bert Somerville's daughter doesn't like football."

"Scandalous, I know," she said breezily. "But there it is. I'm allergic to perspiration�
mine or anyone else's. Luckily, my sainted cousin Reed has always sweated copiously, so
now the family's football dynasty can live on."

The lawyer hesitated, looking distinctly unhappy. "I'm afraid it's not quite so
straightforward."

"What do you mean?"

"Several months before your father's death, he executed a new will. For the short term, at
least, Reed has been disinherited."

Several seconds ticked by as she absorbed this startling piece of information. She
remembered how calm her cousin had seemed at the funeral. "Reed obviously doesn't
know about this."

"I urged Bert to tell him, but he refused. My partner and I have the unenviable task of
breaking the news when we meet with him this evening. He's not going to look kindly on
the fact that Bert is temporarily passing the team on to his daughter."

"His daughter?" And then she thought of the teenager who was reading Dostoyevski
upstairs and began to smile. "My sister's going to make professional football history."


"I'm afraid I don't follow you."

"How many fifteen-year-old girls own their own NFL team?"

Hibbard looked alarmed. "I'm sorry, Miss Somerville. It's been a long day, and I'm not
making myself clear. Your father didn't leave your sister the team."

"He didn't?"

"Oh, no. He left it to you."

"He did what?"

"He left the team to you, Miss Somerville. You're the new owner of the Chicago Stars."

That night as Phoebe wandered through the rooms of her father's ugly house, she tried to
say prayers for the dead animals hanging on the walls. She tried to say them for herself as
well because she was afraid she might be turning into one of those cynical people who
hug old bitterness like a treasured bone to be gnawed