“Allô, Janelle?”
Lydie. Again.
“Thank goodness you’re there,” Lydie continued in hurried French. “May I come by? This
rentrée
is absolutely
un catastrophe
! I need to talk to you about Généviève’s teacher. And about Charles. He’s been gone every night this week… .”
Janelle wished that just once Lydie or another of her friends, these ladies with whom she shared and prayed and worked, would ask how
she
was dong. Didn’t they realize that the
rentrée
meant fresh grief for her? Over two years since they had buried little Josh in the ground, but still her heart ached, a hollow hurting that nothing seemed to fill. She was too tired for this! She wanted to go home! She did not want to listen to Lydie.
She willed a prayer to form on her lips, but it died before it was birthed. After Lydie left she would buy the last school supplies for Luke and Sandy. And fix dinner. Yes, dinner.
Her mind was a fog of vague obligations. She closed her eyes and pictured the grapes, ripe, full, juicy, ready. At one time, that had been her life. Not now.
The doorbell rang, and she went to answer.
________
Ted Draper walked into his office, sat down at the desk, and smoothed his hand over the cherry finish. This new baby had cost him 3,500 dollars, but with all the money he was making, it didn’t even cause his wife to blink. They were getting rich! Rich! He checked his commission run and smiled to see it had risen to 625,000 dollars in just a few days. A few days! He caressed the sleek silver frame holding the photo of his family—taken by the most expensive professional photographer in Atlanta. Lin Su looked stunning in her black and red kimono, and the kids were picture-perfect cute.
Ted allowed himself a minute of deep satisfaction. The years were paying off. He had started out in the Atlanta brokerage firm Goldberg, Finch and Dodge, selling to individuals—the bottom rung of the ladder. “Dialing for dollars,” they called it. His goal was to call anyone who had a pulse. It didn’t matter how much money they had; as long as they were alive and could answer the phone, he would call them, talk to them, offer them his services.
Ted excelled at dialing for dollars. He had a smooth, generous voice, plenty of charisma, and a real personal interest in the smallest client. Soon he was dialing for thousands, and the clients on the other end of the line had bundles of money to invest. The biggest break had come a few weeks ago when Jerry Steinman, the wisest and oldest broker in the company, announced that he’d be retiring. Jerry liked Ted, saw potential in him, and decided to refer his biggest clients to him. Ted was more than happy to accept.
“The guy’s smart, gregarious, charming. He’s got an eye for profit. He’ll do you well.”
Ted had heard Jerry’s presentation to Dr. Kaufman. Jerry Steinman’s clients trusted their retiring broker implicitly. Before Ted knew it, he was dealing with million-dollar portfolios.
That was how the reclusive novelist S. A. Green became his client. He fiddled with the file folder on his desk, opened it, and recalled Jerry’s comments on the novelist’s sporadic career.
“Just be patient, Ted. Stella”—that was what Jerry called her—“will do you right. Invest well, and you’ll make plenty of money too. She’s shrewd but careful. She doesn’t trust many people, but if you do her well, she’ll trust you. In the almost thirty years we’ve worked together, she’s been very generous to me. I’m handing you a fine little jewel. Just be sure you handle it with care.”
A jewel? Jerry was a master of understatement. More like a gold mine!
Ted flipped through the folder and studied S. A. Green’s assets. Strong stocks, reliable mutual funds, wise investing over many years that had paid off. The lady was worth a fortune. By quick calculations, Ted figured that Jerry made over fifty grand off of her assets each year, and that wasn’t counting the years when she released a novel. Amazingly, Jerry was handing him the account just when Miss Green’s new novel was coming out. That was very good news!
Ted reread the short message that Jerry had passed along to him.
Jerry—Terrible shame about your retirement. Who do you think you are, leaving my accounts in the hands of this young whippersnapper? I’m trusting you on this, Jerry. You know better than to get on my bad side.
As for the money, this Ted Draper should be receiving the advance check from Eddy Clouse soon. You know the ropes. Make sure Mr. Draper does too. Put the whole amount into the foundation, please. Blue chip stocks, mutual funds. As always. I know this is repetitive, but I imagine Mr. Draper will read this letter too.
Thank you, Jerry. I’m putting a little something in the mail for you— hopefully it will make your retirement all the sweeter. Don’t make me sorry.
Your friend,
Stella
Ted wondered immediately what “little something” Jerry had received from Stella. He didn’t dare ask. But when Jerry came by his desk later in the afternoon to discuss the different accounts, Ted asked the other question that was bothering him.
“Jerry, what is this foundation that Stella Green is talking about? It looks like the great majority of her royalties go straight into the Stash Green Cash Foundation. What is that?”
“You know, she’s never told me. I send the money, and I don’t ask questions. That’s our deal.”
“You think it’s legit—all that money going into a nice little nontaxable foundation?”
Jerry Steinman took off his black-rimmed glasses and dangled them on two fingers, brushing his hand through his thinning gray hair. He rested his elbow on Ted’s desk. Ted studied his face, lined with years of fording bull and bear markets, dispensing wisdom, making tough calls for clients; Jerry carried the worry and tension on the inside, far down in his gut.
When Jerry didn’t answer, Ted continued, “Hey, what’s percolating in there?”
“I’ll level with you, Ted. You’re going to be her broker, so you deserve to know this. The woman is an enigma. Maybe she’s simply paranoid, maybe it’s just that touch of genius that makes her such a darn good novelist. I don’t know. I’ve chosen to honor her wishes to remain anonymous to the world and not to meddle with her affairs. That foundation has baffled me since its inception years ago. But the way I see it is this: if there’s something shady going on, no one’s found it out for all these years. She’s not just eccentric. She’s smart. Everything I’ve done for her has been completely aboveboard.”
“Of course. I understand.”
Jerry relaxed a little, gave a tired grin. “Don’t be intimidated by her. She’s got a lot of hot air and”—he added with a wink—“a wicked sense of humor. But it’s nothing that an intelligent, savvy young guy like you can’t handle. I think you’ll grow to appreciate Stella.”
Ted certainly hoped so. Maybe someday he’d receive a “little something” from her.
“Jerry, you’re the one who’s taught me through the years that it’s best to meet my clients face-to-face, that it gives me a chance to read their minds, understand how they spend their money. You think I could go meet this woman? Where’d you say she lives?”
“Didn’t say. I’m a hundred percent sure she won’t invite you to her house. Perhaps if you write her a note you could convince her to meet you in some out-of-the-way spot. Don’t be too eager, but write her and see what she says. Let her set it up—whether it’s a meeting in a restaurant or simply a phone call. Follow her lead, and you’ll be all right.”
Later that afternoon, Ted sat down to compose a letter to the novelist:
Dear Miss Green,
I consider it a great privilege to be handling your accounts. Jerry Steinman is a dear friend, and I appreciate his confidence in my work. I assure you I will do my best to handle your portfolio with utmost care.
My normal procedure is to meet with new clients to gain a better understanding of their goals for the future. Would there be a time and place we could meet?
Congratulations on the new novel. I look forward to working with you.
Sincerely,
Ted Draper
Stella. He chuckled to himself, remembering the character Stella from
A Streetcar Named Desire.
All he could see was that poster of Marlon Brando, looking like a pent-up stallion in the role of Stanley, and Kim Hunter playing the pitiful Stella. She’d won an award for the role, he recalled, along with Vivien Leigh in the role of Blanche DuBois. 1951. Before he was born, but he enjoyed watching old movies. Jerry’s description of this Stella sounded nothing like the self-effacing, weak character in the movie
.
He wanted to meet this Stella.
Yeah, me and about half a million of her fans.
Jerry came back by the desk, looked over Ted’s shoulder at the letter, and slapped Ted on the back. “You’ll hate her at first, but give her time. She doesn’t need a lot of pampering. Just do her right.”
Ted opened the portfolio that belonged to Dr. Harold Kaufman. Fifty-three years old, prominent neurosurgeon, made a bundle. Jerry had written the doctor’s profile: conservative, blue chip. Ted had met the man. A bit frenetic—too much energy, too much money—Dr. Kaufman rarely even looked at his portfolio. All that mattered was that his stocks were going up. His secretary kept up on every detail, though.
“Hey, Ted!” A colleague peeked his head into Ted’s office. “What you got on that new junk bond?”
“It’ll pay off, don’t you worry.”
Not for Stella Green or Dr. Harold Kaufman, but he had other clients. The risk takers. For instance, Coleman Little. Now there was a profile he liked: speculative, high risk. This junk bond was perfect for him. Time to start dialing again. China, here we come!
Go, go, go!
________
Silvano finished reading the manuscript at two a.m. He almost wished he hadn’t. This novel was different from Green’s other ones. Private. Intimate. Personal. Better.
No, not better, but something. There were phrases that haunted him the next day. He couldn’t get them out of his head. Especially the one about the subtle way a bad habit—that’s all it was—twisted its way into the protagonist’s life. The way it slipped into the story on page 109, right when he was cheering the protagonist along, stopped him short. Foreshadowing, and not just within the novel. He felt again like a finger was jabbing him in the chest and yelling
This is a bad habit! Be careful!
Problem was, he could not figure out exactly which of his habits was the culprit. Every other ad on TV was warning about lung cancer. Well, he wasn’t a chain smoker; surely just three cigarettes a day couldn’t be the problem. Lying—yes, he’d told Ed Clouse that he hadn’t opened the burlap bag, and no, of course he had not mentioned making the photocopy. Was that stealing? He preferred to call it borrowing—and for a good cause. He might be young and inexperienced, the bottom rung of the ladder, but he had ambition and he had vision.
This is your big chance, Silvo!
He knew what the others at the office whispered about him. Brash, macho, obnoxious, overconfident, arrogant.
He was Italian,
per l’amor di Dio
! He grew up in Rome, and when you grow up around beauty—art, women, sculptures—you learn to appreciate the finer things in life. He may be young, but he’d lived long enough to know that his ideas were usually the best. He was going to go places whether this publishing house liked it or not. People would learn to respect Silvano Rossi.
They had to, and soon.
You are our only hope, Silvo. For the family, for our honor. You go to America—the land of opportunity! Papa’s sister has done it—worked hard and escaped poverty and made more money than she could ever have hoped in Italy. Papa is not here to do it for us, so it falls on you—the oldest son, the smart one. Honor and money. You will take care of us, yes? Anything can happen in America!
He glanced at the calendar—September 23—and imagined his mother in the little tourist shop by St. Peter’s, selling postcards and trinkets, rosary beads and key chains holding tiny dangling replicas of the cathedral. And gelato. It had almost hit a hundred degrees yesterday in Rome. Yes, Mamma would be scooping out gelato, then brushing her hand across her sweaty brow as the ice cream dripped from the scoop onto her blouse. All the while smiling, not showing that inside she was worrying if she could pay the rent at the end of the month.
That image sealed it. Somehow he’d find Miss S. A. Green and get an interview. Then he’d sell it—to
Persona
magazine, perhaps, or
Life.
Dirty journalism, some would call it. Who cared? He wasn’t planning on staying at Youngblood forever. He had other plans. For the honor of his family.
He glanced at the photocopied manuscript on the little bedside table. Ignoring that jabbing finger, he switched off his lamp and went to sleep.
Silvano looked in the mirror the next morning. He wore a well-cut Italian suit, Italian leather loafers, and a silk tie; his face was slightly tanned, and his thick black hair was combed back like the Italian star of yesteryear, Rudolph Valentino. He headed to the office, arrived early as usual, made the espresso for himself, and reviewed the work for the day.
An hour later, Leah stopped by his desk. She wore her habitual dark blue suit—a rather inexpensive light wool jacket and skirt. He’d often wanted to get the tight-lipped, middle-aged secretary into something more becoming. She could be a lovely woman, in a Gucci suit with the right makeup and a few accessories. She didn’t have enough self-esteem.
Leah whispered, “Boss wants to see you, Silvano. He seems riled.”
Silvano brushed his hands over his suit, straightened his tie, and walked the hundred feet from his small cubicle to Ed Clouse’s office. “Yessir?”
“Oh, hello, Silvano. Yes, come in.”
“Can I get you your cup of espresso?”
“No, no. Not right now. Have a seat, Silvano.” The boss cleared his throat. “Listen, I just got off the phone with Frank Blanton. He’s irate. Says you chopped his manuscript to pieces without any forewarning. I gave you Blanton because he’s a good author who needs minimal editing. What gave you the idea to rip the thing apart?”