Andy, Marilyn and Me

"Yes, you are right," Paloma chimed in, recovering from her surprise. "It should go to Daniel, not me." She looked over to Daniel for support, but he would not return her glance.

"Be that as it may," the attorney continued, "the late Mr. Morgan was very clear as to his wishes. Now, if I may continue to the second bequest?"

When the group had quieted, the attorney resumed. "The second bequest concerns the Andy Warhol hanging in my living room. I hereby leave the Warhol to the Birch Grove Mansion and Museum to become part of its permanent collection.'"

"Oh my god!" Nicholson gasped.

"No, that's all wrong!" Susan shouted. "He can't do that -- he was supposed to leave the Warhol to Daniel!"

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Morgan, but Mr. Morgan expressly bequeathed the Warhol to Birch Grove," the attorney intoned. "He wishes it to be hung in a place of prominence in the museum."

"But that means that Daniel gets nothing!" Susan yelped. "His father cut him out of the will? How could he do that? It's not right."

"Ladies and gentlemen," the attorney said in a loud voice, "if I may have your attention, I have not finished reading the terms of the bequest. Please be advised that the second bequest Mr. Morgan made is conditional. The will goes on, 'My gift to Birch Grove is contingent upon the completion of two requirements. First, Birch Grove must immediately and permanently sever any and all professional relationships with Mrs. Susan Morgan. Second, Mr. Grant Nicholson, the executive director of Birch Grove, must immediately and permanently terminate the liaison he has been conducting with Mrs. Susan Morgan. In the event that either of these two requirements is not fully met, ownership of the Warhol is instead to go the Warhol Museum in Pittsburgh.'"

He pointed at Grant Nicholson. "In case you're wondering, Sir, I have sent notice of this conditional bequest to Pittsburgh just prior to this meeting. It is my understanding the Warhol Museum will be monitoring your compliance with these requirements most closely."

"This is ridiculous!" Susan shrieked. "That meddlesome old man has no say in our personal lives." She turned to Daniel. "This is all your doing, isn't it? You're trying to cheat me out of what's legally mine."

"I would never do that, Susan. In fact, I have what's legally yours right here." With that he handed her the envelope he'd brought with him to the meeting.

She ripped it open and stared at the contents as though they were written in Greek. "What is this?"

"That's your legal notice that I've filed for divorce," he said. Then, taking out his IPhone and snapping a photo to document his action, he said grimly, "Susan Morgan, you have now been served."

"You bastard, you can't divorce me -- I'm divorcing you!" she screamed. Daniel only smiled.

While she was shouting, Susan hadn't noticed that Grant had quietly slipped out of the room. When she finally realized he was gone, she hurried after him. Meanwhile, Paloma was trying to argue with Daniel. "This isn't right, Daniel. Senor Morgan should have left his house to you, not to me. You are his son -- it's not right that you have nothing."

Now Daniel smiled. "Paloma, it's alright. My dad and I discussed this. He loved you and Marco, and wanted to make sure you were taken care of when he was gone. He knew I understood and that this was what I wanted too."

He took her by the shoulders and looked at her carefully. "Don't you see? He was a gruff, old-fashioned man who had a hard time expressing his feelings. He didn't know how to say how much he appreciated the care you gave, the companionship you provided, and the way you didn't take any of crap off him. This was his way of expressing his love."

She wiped away fresh tears. "Marco and I -- we loved him too, Daniel."

* * * * * * * * * * *

Susan literally ran down the hallway at Birch Grove to Grant's office. Ignoring his secretary, she barged into her boss's office. "Grant, Grant," she panted, "this is wonderful news. With the Warhol added to its collection, Birch Grove will draw a host of new visitors. You'll be head of the most prestigious art museum in the area."

"Thank you, Susan," he replied carefully. "I think you're right."

"And after everything settles down," she went on, "our relationship won't have to be secret any more, just like you've always wanted."

His countenance narrowed. "Didn't you hear the qualification the old man's will added to his bequest?" he asked sharply.

"That can't possibly be legally binding," she shot back. "It will make for good gossip among the country club set, but it will blow over quickly."

"Except for the Warhol Museum," he countered. "They would love to add such an important piece to their collection, so they'll be watching us with very sharp eyes."

The catch in her voice betrayed her fear. "But like I said, that can't be legal. No court would enforce such a requirement."

Now Grant grew angry. "Do you really expect Birch Grove to go to court with the Warhol Museum? Do you know what kind of resources they have? There's Carnegie Foundation money behind them. If they sue, the legal fees could bankrupt us."

He stood up and handed his former lover a set of papers. "I'm sorry, Susan, but I've already spoken with Mr. Worthington about this. As of today, you are no longer an employee of Birch Grove."

"Grant, you can't do that, not after all we've meant to each other." Then her tone grew shriller. "Besides, you don't want me to tell your wife about us."

"I've already confessed to her," he told Susan coldly, "and as soon as I'm done here I'm going home to resume groveling. Hopefully, the prestige of being the wife of the executive director of Birch Grove will soothe her hurt feelings.

"Now, it's time you leave the mansion. We'll arrange to have your severance check mailed to you."

She stood there staring at him angrily, her fists clenched at her side. Instinctively, he took a half step back, fearing she might attack him. Instead, she spun on her heel and stalked away, heading down the hall to her former office. Quickly she grabbed a few personal items and then walked out. As she passed her secretary's desk, Evita asked, "Are you leaving, Mrs. Morgan?"

"Yes," Susan answered, not even looking at her.

As her heels clicked on the marble Evita called after her, "Adios, puta." Then she hurried down to Christina's desk to tell her what had just happened.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Daniel was prowling through the refrigerator looking for dinner when he heard the sound of keys in the front door. Stepping into the living area, he saw Susan enter, a sullen look on her face.

When she saw her soon-to-be ex-husband, her expression turned to anger. "This was all your doing, wasn't it? How long have you known about Grant and me?"

"Long enough to blow up your little scheme," he shot back.

"So you got Ezra to change his will," she said bitterly. "He was going to leave everything to you, and you talked him into changing it. Why would you do that?"

"Because I wanted to make damned sure you'd never get your hands on it, no matter what happened. When I heard you and your lawyer had some scheme to get the Warhol declared community property, donating it to Birch Grove insured that couldn't happen. Plus, it gave me the leverage to crush your little affair with Grant. I figured his love would vanish pretty quickly if it was a choice between you or the Warhol."

"So you really hate me that much?"

He looked at her incredulously. "After what you tried to do? You're damned right!" he shouted.

She stared at him, shocked to see him so angry.

After a moment he regained control. "There is one thing I want to know: did you ever love me?"

She sighed and flopped down in an armchair. "I think I did early on, back when we first got married. You were so dynamic, so full of potential. I thought you'd climb the ladder and take me with you."

She shook her head, a bitter expression curling her lips. "Imagine my disappointment when I saw the path you chose instead. It wasn't long after that I started looking for a better opportunity."

"So it's always been about money and prestige with you. Love and a good life weren't enough."

"How very Norman Rockwell of you!" she smirked. "Don't you know: that's what losers choose when they don't have what it takes to win."

"Family, friends, community -- that's your idea of losing?"

"What I want is respect, the kind that money and position get you. That's what matters -- the rest is just window-dressing."

He started to argue, then decided it wasn't worth it. "So what happens next?"

Her bravado had evaporated. "I'm leaving. Thanks to you, my reputation in this town is trash. As soon as I can pack what I need, I'll be gone. And don't worry: assuming we split assets equitably, I won't fight the divorce. All I want is half our savings and half the proceeds from the house."

"Sorry, Susan, you're forgetting we don't own this house -- it belongs to the university."

She ground her teeth. "You always were so smart. Why couldn't you have been more ambitious?" Without waiting for an answer, she went to the bedroom. After a while she emerged with a suitcase, garment bag and cosmetics kit.

"I'm leaving now," she told him. "I'll have my attorney contact yours and we'll get the divorce done as quickly as possible." She gave him a baleful look. "At least we agree on one thing: we both want this marriage over with."

He looked at her curiously. " So where are you going?"

"As far away from here as I can -- somewhere where I can start over, hopefully with someone a little more aggressive."

Daniel watched her go. Good riddance, he thought with satisfaction.

* * * * * * * * * * *

For once Susan proved as good as her word, and their divorce moved forward smoothly. Daniel hated having to pay alimony, but with his soon-to-be-ex-wife now unemployed, he could hardly argue. "It's a small price to pay to be rid of her, and even smaller when you consider what she was trying to do to you," his attorney advised him.

In the meantime, serving as executor of his father's estate was keeping Daniel busy. Every day it seemed there was another requirement: distributing copies of the death certificate, stopping his father's Social Security, notifying the IRS and filing a final 1040, posting legal notices with creditors and more. After classes, Daniel regularly found himself at his father's house, going through possessions squirreled away over the years, paying bills and sorting out his father's financial affairs. To his dismay, he discovered that his dad had paid everything with paper checks. Until he could get accounts switched to electronic payment, Daniel found himself writing more checks in a few weeks than he had in several years.

Although the task was time-consuming, it did give Daniel the opportunity to work in the company of Paloma and Marco. His house on campus seemed dark and gloomy; his father's home felt alive with light and life. It was not uncommon for him to work into the evening and to have dinner with the two of them. He felt guilty about imposing, but, Paloma begged him to stay. Even after he was nearly finished straightening out his father's affairs, she implored him to continue to eat with them. "It is hard to cook for just the two of us," she maintained, and he was happy to yield to her request. Being part of a family, he found, was good medicine to heal the sorrow of his father's loss and the bitterness of the end of his marriage.

* * * * * * * * * * *

A few weeks later, Daniel received a call from his father's attorney. "The probate court has signed off on the final accounting of your father's estate. You're now free to dispose of his assets as he directed."

"Really? I thought probate usually took months."

The old man chuckled. "Normally, you'd be right, but your father's will seems to have been bumped up to the head of the list. Of course that may have something to do with the number of movers and shakers serving on the Birch Grove board. It seems they're eager to get their hands on their new prize. In any case, you can move forward now."

An hour after he'd heard from the attorney, Daniel got a call from Grant Nicholson inquiring when Birch Grove could expect to take possession of the Warhol. "As I think you're aware, the museum and I have fully complied with the terms of your father's will. And now that it's cleared probate, we're obviously eager to proceed with the transfer."

Although the legal impediments had been dealt with, a new complication arose. The museum curator insisted on having her own people box up and transport the silkscreen to Birch Grove. But the handover needed to be coordinated with the security company, which had to carefully disconnect all the protective devices and systems. Safely removing the work and decommissioning the various systems was a complex task. It would take most of a day for the two groups to effect the transfer.

As he waited for progress reports in his office, Nicholson felt like a kid on Christmas eve. By tomorrow morning, the most valuable artwork Birch Grove had ever owned would be in their possession. To celebrate the event, the museum was holding a private showing for the board of directors and special guests the following evening. The awkwardness of his affair with Susan was in the rear-view mirror; ahead, the future for the museum and its executive director looked bright indeed.

* * * * * * * * * * *

After arranging with the security company to protect his father's house while the transfer of the Warhol was being made, Daniel took Paloma and Marco on a day-trip to the Poconos. The three of them went hiking on a scenic trail, had lunch at the Flagstaff Lodge and rode the Lehigh Gorge Scenic Railway.

By the time they got home, everyone except a guard from the security company had gone. The living room had been cleaned and the furniture put back where it belonged. Nevertheless, the smiling posterized face of Marilyn Monroe was missing, and all three of them felt its absence.

Trying to break the somber mood, Daniel had a brainstorm. "It's too late to cook dinner. How about I order some pizza?"

The suggestion was well received, and soon the three of them were sharing several large pizzas. By the time they were finished, the combination of the heavy meal and the day's activities had worn them all out. Marco was already asleep, and Daniel carried him off to bed. Then, as he started for the front door, Paloma stopped him. "Please, Daniel, stay here tonight. With all the security systems gone, I'd feel safer. You can sleep in your dad's room."

He tried to demur, but she persisted, and after the long day he didn't feel like arguing. So when Paloma went off to her room to sleep (she hadn't moved after Senor Morgan's passing), Daniel stripped down to his t-shirt and boxer briefs and lay down in his father's bed.

At first, memories and the unfamiliarity of the bed kept him awake. But he must have been more comfortable than he thought, because he quickly dropped off to sleep. Sometime later, however, he was awakened by a sound in the hallway. As he sat up in bed, wondering if it was his imagination, he heard it again. Suddenly he saw the shadowy figure of Paloma open the door, tiptoe over to his bedside and slip under the covers.

He started to speak, but she slid her soft hand over his mouth. "Please, Daniel, it's been so long for me, and I've been so lonely." Then she removed her hand and replaced it with her lips. In an instant his objections were forgotten, and he returned her kiss with a passion that overwhelmed them both.

His left arm slipped around her, clutching her to him tightly, while his right hand reached for the straps of her nightgown to free her breasts. Her hands were equally busy, slipping under the waistband of his briefs and trying to tug them down. Quickly he sat up and yanked off his underwear, then helped her pull her nightgown over her head.

He stopped for a moment, gazing in appreciation at the slim athletic figure revealed in the moonlight. But when he started to caress her, she interrupted. "No, I need you now, Daniel. Please, don't make me wait any longer."

Hearing that, he laid her back on the sheets and slipped between her legs, which were open and waiting. He heard panting and realized that both of them were at a peak of arousal. Moistening his cock against her slippery pussy, he gently slid himself inside. "Oh, yes, oh yes," she moaned into his ear, and began rocking her hips, urging him not to hold back.

It had been too long for him as well. Now his body took over, driving him deep into her warmth, feeling the delicious sensation as he reversed, then repeating the process in an accelerating rhythm dictated by long-suppressed desire.

Just as he felt himself nearing his climax, he heard her gasping urgently, "I feel it, Daniel. I feel it -- now, now, please, now!" With that, the two of them exploded in a sexual crescendo, leaving them clinging to each other in exhausted pleasure.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The next evening was the celebration of the Warhol installation at Birch Grove. Grant Nicholson had arrived early, leaving his wife to come separately, "the better for you to make a grand entrance," he'd told her.

As he was going over the check list for the festivities, he was startled by a knock on his office doorframe. Looking up, he saw the troubled face of the museum's curator.

"What is it?" he demanded impatiently.

"Sir, there's something wrong with the Warhol," the woman said uneasily.

"What! It's not damaged, is it?"

"No sir, nothing like that. It's just that it doesn't look quite right."

"'Doesn't look right' -- what are you talking about?"

"It's just that some of the colors don't look like they should."

"It's an artist's proof," Nicholson exploded. "It's not supposed to look perfect."

The curator winced but held her ground. "And Warhol's signature, sir, it's not faded like it should be. I mean, he would have signed it back in the '60s -- the ink should have faded."

"Is that what's troubling you? How do you know what kind of ink Warhol used? Go back and make sure everything is ready -- the guests will be arriving any minute."

The little woman didn't budge. "But that's not the main thing, sir. The problem is, well, it's the wrong size!"

"What!?"

"Yes sir. Warhol's Marilyn Monroe is 36 by 36 inches -- I looked it up to be sure. A proof would have to be the same size. But this print is only 35 inches square."

Worthington's mouth fell open. "So what are you saying exactly?"

The curator looked as though she were about to cry. "Sir, this print is a fake, a forgery. There's no way it's authentic."

"Oh my god!" the museum director cried, slumping back in his chair as tried to comprehend the full horror of her revelation.

"You're sure?" he asked desperately.

"Yes sir. I'm sorry."

He stared off silently into the distance, stunned at what was happening.

"Sir, Sir," the curator interrupted anxiously, "what do you want us to do? Should we go ahead and hang it anyway?"

"Are you crazy?" Nicholson shouted, causing the woman to flinch. "If people found out we'd knowingly hung a fake work of art, it would mean the end of Birch Grove." He shuddered and then pointed at the curator. "Take the work down and hide it. Tell your people to turn out the lights and put up a sign that says Event Canceled."

When the woman hesitated, Nicholson yelled, "Do it -- do it now before it's too late!"

The curator scurried off, and Nicholson slumped back, contemplating the disaster that had befallen him. A thought occurred to him and he rushed out to his secretary's desk. "Call the guard at the front entrance and tell him to chain the main gate shut. Quickly, quickly!"

She paused fearfully. "What should I tell him to say to the guests?"