Words Unspoken (14 page)
“Hey, Janelle. Yes, it’s me. Don’t faint. And,” she said quickly, “everything’s fine. Don’t worry.”
“Okay. That’s good to hear. What are you doing calling?”
Katy Lynn had memorized this part, after having dug around to find her sister’s letter dated back in June. “I, I wondered how you’re doing. Your last letter didn’t sound too good.”
“Oh, you know. There are always ups and downs with the work.”
Janelle’s voice was guarded. Her sister was no dummy. She wouldn’t reveal her heart to a sister who, up until now, seemed completely unconcerned.
“We’re hanging in there.”
Katy Lynn wondered briefly how long she needed to sound interested before she could throw out her question. She almost asked about the kids, then thought of Josh and decided she did not want to touch that issue.
“Listen, I wonder if I could come over for a visit. I know it’s spur of the moment, but I need to get away. Gina’s been invited to stay with her best friend Caroline for a couple of weeks, and Hamilton has a crazy schedule this month. And I just finished the fund-raiser for the symphony, and the Christmas gala is well under way.” She cleared her throat and made her voice light, cheery. “And, well, you’ve invited me for ten years, and I thought I might just finally take you up on it.” She hoped her voice didn’t belie panic, urgency.
Her sister hesitated. “Well—well, sure, Katy Lynn. You’re always welcome.”
“Could I come soon? A week from today? That’ll be October 5.”
She imagined her saintly sister on the other end of the line sending a prayer heavenward.
Help, God!
A phone call from the wayward sister, the black sheep!
“Next week?” Janelle repeated.
Her words were heavy, weighed down, but Katy Lynn could not worry about that. She needed to get away immediately. She did not know why, but she just
knew
.
“Sure, Katy Lynn. Come on.”
________
Stella waited at the restaurant. She liked to arrive thirty minutes early so she could observe her client before he was aware of her gaze. She had an innate sense of time and space and people. She read them in their stride. She’d seated herself at the front window with a clear view of the street from all angles. Ted Draper glided in ten minutes early, looking perfectly professional, wearing a nicely cut gray suit. He was tall with neatly cropped brown hair and sharp features. Thin. An attractive young man, early thirties, she judged. Good posture, confident. She liked young men who were confident.
He stopped at the maitre d’s desk, whispered a question, and was directed to where Stella sat.
“Miss Green,” he said, walking briskly to her with an outstretched hand. “Ted Draper. A pleasure to meet you.”
She stood and grasped his hand and looked him straight in the eyes. “The pleasure is mine, Mr. Draper. I hope.” The handshake was firm, the intention communicated. All business.
She watched him register this, give a serious nod, and take a seat at the same time she did. “How was your flight?”
“Just fine, Miss Green. Although I’d forgotten how Chicago traffic lasts half the day and then starts over.”
“Yes, it can be a bit unpredictable, even on a perfect fall day.” She put on her glasses and studied the menu.
A waitress came over and filled Ted’s water glass. “May I get you a cocktail, sir?”
“No, thank you. A Coke. Just a Coke.”
He’s being careful, doesn’t want to shock the old curmudgeon
, Stella thought with satisfaction, forcing her lips to stay in a thin, tight line.
No curling up on the ends.
When their food arrived and they had finished with pleasantries, Ted began his subtle questions. “I understand you have a very unusual and successful career, Miss Green. May I go over your financial statement?”
“Of course.”
“I would greatly appreciate you filling me in on any details that are lacking.”
“I trust nothing will be lacking. Jerry Steinman has always been impeccable with my finances.”
A soft pink stain colored Ted Draper’s cheeks. “Of course, Miss Green. I just want to be sure I understand my new client. Thank you very much for taking me on—after Jerry. He’s the best. I’ve studied your portfolio with him. Blue chips and mutual funds. Royalty checks come to me, and I handle them and send you a photocopied report. Twice a year it says, for the American royalties. Once a year for foreign royalties.
Can be sporadic.”
He fiddled with a file and took out a piece of paper with the letterhead
Stash Green Cash Foundation.
He saw her staring at the paper and said, “Interesting name for a foundation. Stash Green Cash.” He gave a little smile.
“Do you have a problem with the name of my foundation, Mr.
Draper?”
“No, not at all,” he said too quickly. Then he recovered. “And I understand that all the royalties go into this foundation, unless otherwise specified?”
“That’s right.”
“And the statements are mailed monthly to this P.O. box in Chicago?”
“Right again. Jerry picked a sharp boy for me.”
Ted Draper’s brow creased, the pink stain deepened, but he did not lose his poise. He glanced down at the papers and asked, “Do you have a literary agent?”
“No. Never needed one. Eddy Clouse has always treated me well. I just hope he doesn’t decide to retire like Jerry. That would be disastrous.”
“May I have your permission to contact Mr. Clouse? Mr. Steinman has of course spoken about him to me.”
“Contact him if you wish, but let me be perfectly clear. I do not want anyone at the brokerage house prying into my personal affairs.”
“Yes, of course. But you do realize that the office manager and the administrative assistants know about all the accounts? It is part of their job.”
“Yes, yes. I’m aware of how Goldberg, Finch and Dodge works. But I will not have personal contact with anyone besides you. If you have a question, contact me at this number.” She handed him a piece of stationery with a phone number written on it. “Only in an emergency. Identify yourself immediately. Otherwise, for minor issues, talk to Mr. Steinman and Mr. Clouse.”
Ted nodded, then asked, “May we discuss the foundation?”
“Of course.”
“Created in 1967, I believe.”
“Yes, after the publication of the second novel.”
“You only want me to deal in mutual funds and blue chip stocks.”
“Yes. Nothing risky.”
“Are you interested in other bonds? Several very conservative new issues are coming out, and the market looks constructive for this type of investment.”
She leaned forward and bore into him. “Mr. Draper, you may purchase what you like with the royalties. I trust you to invest well. Just be sure of two things. No junk bonds and nothing in computers, yet. I still believe in typewriters.”
“Of course, Miss Green.” He cleared his throat, looked down at the papers that sat beside an empty coffee cup, and shuffled through them. “I’ve spent some time studying your portfolio. It has grown considerably each year, with spikes after the publication of each novel. Your portfolio shows a gain of over sixteen percent last year. The total amount in the foundation comes to just over seven million dollars, of which you have specified seven percent each year be given away—well above what is required by law for charitable foundations.”
“Exactly.”
He twirled a pen on his fingers; Stella concluded it was his nervous twitch.
“I know that once a year we transfer whatever amount you tell us to your bank account in Switzerland. As your broker, it is my responsibility to inform you that the government is tightening restrictions on what can be considered ‘charitable institutions.’ Would you like to discuss where this money is going—to be sure it still qualifies?”
“No. I am fully aware of the law. And no one, absolutely no one, needs to know anything about where this money goes, Mr. Draper.” She leaned across the table for emphasis. “Remember that your job is to invest well, build up the foundation. That’s it. My job is to distribute the funds as I wish, no questions asked. Is that clear?”
“Yes, yes, of course.”
“Good. Then that will be all.” With one move she picked up the tab for the lunch and signaled to the waiter. She paid with a wad of bills, leaving a sizeable tip, and walked out the door, with Ted Draper catching up on her heels.
“Thank you, Mr. Draper.” She shook his hand.
The tall, confident broker wore a startled expression that he changed quickly to a pleasant smile. “Thank you, Miss Green. So nice to meet you. Thank you for lunch.”
Stella nodded, hailed a taxi, and got in, satisfied that she had gained the upper hand on this new recruit. The foundation was safe, for the time being. Everything was safe.
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 1
Eddy Clouse was out for the day. He had probably flown off to some meeting with good old Essay. At any rate, it gave Silvano a little more freedom with his phone calls. He dialed the number of the Atlanta firm.
“Goldberg, Finch and Dodge. How may I help you?” The woman’s voice was young and professional.
“Yes, hello. I’m interested in finding a broker at your firm, and Mr. Jerry Steinman has been recommended to me. Is there a possibility I could set up a phone interview with Mr. Steinman?”
“I’m sorry, but Mr. Steinman is not taking on new clients at this time. He is actually in the process of retiring.”
“I see. Would he have another broker he could refer me to?”
“Well, I know that he has turned over some of his accounts to Mr. Ted Draper. Would you care to speak with him?”
Silvano thought through his options and said, “Yes, yes, that would be fine.”
“Excuse me, who may I say is calling?”
“Mr. Rossi, from Youngblood Publishers, at the First National Bank Building at Five Points.”
“One moment, please.”
Silvano drummed his fingers impatiently, or perhaps nervously, on his desk.
“Hello, Ted Draper here.”
“Mr. Draper, hello. My name is Silvano Rossi. I’m an editor with Youngblood Publishers here in Atlanta. I’ve been asked to write an article on authors and investments in the stock market. I was referred to Goldberg, Finch and Dodge because one of our most illustrious authors is represented by your firm—Miss S. A. Green. I was wondering if I might have an interview with you and get information for other authors who are looking to us for financial planning.”
Silvano made his voice as smooth as his greased-back black hair. “I know you cannot discuss Miss Green’s affairs. The whole publishing house knows the legend of S. A. Green. We know that case is closed.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “I’m wondering if we could set up a time for an interview somewhere downtown. Maybe over lunch. I actually think it might be good business for your firm. When it’s published, this article will be read by authors all over the country.”
“Funny that you should call right now, Mr. Rossi. I actually have a meeting scheduled at Youngblood early next week to meet with Edmond Clouse. We’ll be busy all Monday morning, but perhaps I could work in your interview in the afternoon—or over lunch, if you prefer.”
A smile, which eventually became a full-fledged grin, spread across Silvano’s face as the broker spoke. “That would be fantastic, absolutely fantastic. I’d really appreciate any time you could give me.”
“Yes, well, I’ll look forward to meeting you, Mr. Rossi.”
“Silvano. Call me Silvano.”
“Certainly. See you next week, Silvano.”
Buono!
Well, that was easy.
Play your cards right, Silvano, and it will all work out just right.
He made another call.
“Frank? Yes, Silvano Rossi here. Yes. Yes, I’m sorry that we seemed to get started on the wrong foot. All my fault. I’ve been looking over the manuscript again, and I believe there are several less drastic things we could do to make this work… .”
________
Ted loved driving through his new neighborhood—in the deep green Mercedes, no less—and turning onto his street. Tuxedo Road—
his street
. Where some of the wealthiest Atlantans lived. Yes, he was proud of himself! Life was good! Even better, now that he’d met Miss Green. Maybe she had a screw loose, but that was no problem. Weren’t all artists a bit crazy? Genius and insanity were just two words to describe the same condition. It didn’t matter. She liked him. Wary, yes. But it had gone well.
Ted entered the house on Tuxedo and knew immediately what Lin Su had fixed for dinner. Pork and vegetable stir-fry with cashew rice. A family favorite. He set down his briefcase and overnight bag in the hall and let out a deep breath. It felt so good to be home—the black and white tile floors, the high ceilings, the ambiance that Lin Su created seemingly without effort.
“Daddy!” It was Sammy’s three-year-old voice he heard before the little guy scooted into the hallway in his pajamas, the kind with the feet in them that made him slip and slide and giggle as he went.
“Hey, buddy! Man, is it good to be home!” He picked up the child and swung him around while Sammy’s perfect toddler giggles reverberated, as beautiful to Ted as any rendition of Bach by the Atlanta Symphony.
“Where’s Mommy?”
