It Had to Be You (Chicago Stars #1)(7)

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-gallery-dinner-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 over forever.

Why did you do this to me, Bert? Did you need to control me so much that you even had to bend me to your will from the grave?

When Brian Hibbard had announced that Bert had left her the Stars, she’d experienced a moment of such incredible happiness that she couldn’t speak. She hadn’t thought about the money or the power or even the fact that she hated football. She’d simply rejoiced that after so many years of animosity, her father had proved that he did care about her. She remembered sitting dazed while the lawyer told her the rest.