After the Party Read Free Page A

felt on his cowlick. She was a sucker for cowlicks, and his was a beaut. That little whirl of sandy hair just to the left of his part simply refused to go along with the rest of his fastidiously styled locks. It reminded Ella a bit of herself. She wasn’t one to go along with the crowd, either.
    All sorts of superstitions were attached to cowlicks. Some people saw them as the mark of the devil. Others insisted they were a sign of good luck. Ella’s best friend, Sandra Chesterfield, meanwhile, claimed that men with cowlicks were exceptional lovers. She’d read an article to that effect on the internet. If that was true, a man with one displayed so prominently at his hairline must be...
    Ella fanned herself.
    “Hot?” Chase asked.
    Yes, and that made two of them. But she smiled and said, “I’m fine. Cool as a cucumber.”
    His brows furrowed momentarily. Then, to the woman seated on the left of the reception desk, he said, “This is Ella Sanborn. She’s here to see Elliot.”
    “Yes. He’s expecting her.”
    “My uncle’s office is the third door on the left.”
    The door in question was closed. Ella asked, “Should I knock?”
    “Just once and then go right in. If you wait for him to answer, you might wind up standing there all day.”
    It seemed rude to barge in, even if she was expected. “You’re sure he’s not busy?”
    Chase consulted his watch. “Oh, he’s busy. It’s nearly race time.”
    “What?”
    “You’ll see.” One side of his mouth rose. It wasn’t quite a smile, but it was the closest she’d seen him come so far. It softened his features and left her a bit dazzled. It also made her wonder what Chase Trumbull would look like with a full-out grin plastered on his face and amusement lighting his eyes.
    “Good luck. Of course you don’t need it,” he said solemnly. At her puzzled expression, he added, “You found that penny in the lobby.”
    “I did.” Ella replied with an equal amount of seriousness, even though she was pretty sure that he was teasing her.
    He disappeared into the first office, whose door bore a brass plate etched with Chase Danforth Trumball III, Chief Financial Officer.
    She sucked in a breath and proceeded to the third door, passing one with a brass plate marked Owen Scott Trumbull, Chief Operating Officer. The nameplate on the third door wasn’t brass. It was bright red, and its white carnival-esque script read, Elliot Trumbull, Purveyor of All Things Fun. In spite of her nerves, she found herself grinning. After she knocked and the door opened, that grin changed into delighted laughter.
    Now this was more like it.
    It wasn’t an office. It was every young boy’s fantasy, complete with a race track that snaked under, over and around the spacious room’s eclectic furnishings.
    “You’re 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