by Nora Roberts
“I can get you the account value as of today, but I’m not sure what you mean you’ve become aware.”
“Is this my money?”
“Yes, of course. I—”
“Why is my mother’s name also on the account?”
“Ms. Kelly.” He spoke slowly. “The account was opened when you were a minor, and you expressed the wish to leave the account in your mother’s hands. I can promise you, she’s been scrupulous in overseeing your investments.”
“How did I express this wish?”
“Ms. Wilcox explained that you had no desire to deal with the investments, and you never communicated with me or the firm to request the account be turned over to you exclusively.”
“Because I didn’t know it existed until today.”
“I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding. It might be best if I met with you and your mother to sort this out.”
“My mother is out of town, currently at a retreat where she has no access to phone or internet.” And some god somewhere had been looking out for her, Breen thought. “But I think you and I should sort this out.”
“I agree, absolutely. My assistant’s gone for the day, but I can set up an appointment for Monday.”
No, no, she’d lose her courage over the weekend. It would drain. It always did. “How about now?”
“Ms. Kelly, I was on the point of leaving the office myself when I took your call.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I think this is urgent. I know it is for me. I want to talk to you, get a better understanding of this . . . situation before I contact a lawyer.”
In the silence, Breen squeezed her eyes shut. Please, she thought, please, don’t make me wait.
“It might be better if we met now, talked this all through. I’m sure, as I said, this is just a misunderstanding. I’ve been told you don’t drive, so—”
“I don’t have a car,” she corrected, “because I can’t afford one. But I’m perfectly capable of getting to your office. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs, in the lobby. We’re a small firm, Ms. Kelly. Most will have gone for the weekend before you get here.”
“All right. Thank you.”
She hung up before he could change his mind, and sat—shaking again.
“Get your guts up, Breen. Get your stupid guts up, and go.”
She put all the papers she’d stacked in their appropriate files. She left the watering can, left the file drawer open, and went downstairs.
She thought of the bus, how long it would take her to get to the offices in City Center.
Then she did something she’d never done.
She took an Uber.
Traffic was horrible. But then again, it was Friday rush hour. The Uber driver, a woman about her age, chatted, then stopped when Breen just put her head back and closed her eyes.
She wanted to read through the files again, but she’d get carsick. Not a good way to meet the man who was, apparently, her investment broker for the first time.
She needed a plan, but couldn’t think through the distress, the anger. Her schedule for the weekend included—or had—sitting down to pay bills, juggle funds, squeeze them. She’d planned that sad chore for after her workout. At home, as she couldn’t afford a gym membership.
Not just couldn’t afford, she admitted, but felt weird and uncomfortable working out with other people around.
Whatever came of this meeting, she still had bills to pay.
She opened her eyes to see they’d broken out of the worst of the traffic and made some progress along the river. The sun, dipping down in the west, still beamed, hit the bridges, the water, made it all shine to her eyes.
No rain after all, she thought, and realized she’d left her raincoat in her mother’s kitchen.
Had she remembered to lock up, reset the alarm?
After a moment’s anxiety, she closed her eyes again, walked herself back.
Yes, yes, she’d done that. All that was just autopilot.
When the car pulled up in front of the dignified brick building in the shadows of steel towers, she tipped the driver.
There went Sunday night pizza.
When she crossed the sidewalk, a man opened the door.
He stood, tall and lanky in a navy pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, bold red tie. For some reason the gray, salted through his brown hair, made her feel easier.
He was older, she thought. Experienced. He knew what he was doing.
She sure as hell didn’t.
“Ms. Kelly.” He held out a hand.
“Yes, hello. Mr. Ellsworth.”
“Please come right in. My office is on the second floor. Do you mind the stairs?”
“No.”
She saw a quiet, carpeted lobby with a glossy reception counter, several oversize leather chairs, a few big green plants in big terracotta pots.
“I want to apologize for any part I’ve played in this misunderstanding,” Ellsworth began as they walked up to the second floor. “Jennifer—your mother—indicated you weren’t interested in the details of the account.”
“She lied.”
That hadn’t been in the plan—whatever the plan might be. But it came right out of Breen’s mouth. “To you, if you’re telling me the truth. To me by omission. I didn’t know there was an account.”
“Yes, well.” Ellsworth gestured toward an open door.
His office, bigger than the living room in her apartment and airy due to the big windows, held an old mahogany desk beautifully refinished, a small leather sofa, two visitor chairs.
A counter held a fancy coffee maker. Framed photos—obviously family—covered a floating shelf.
“How about some coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. Milk, no sugar.”
“Have a seat,” he invited while he walked to the coffee machine.
“I have all the files,” she began as she sat, pushed her knees together because they trembled. “From what I can see, the account was opened in 2006. That’s when my parents separated.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can you tell me if the deposits starting then were child-support payments?”
“No, they were not. I’d suggest you speak to your mother about that, as I can only talk to you about this specific account.”
“All right. My mother opened the account?”
“Eian Kelly opened the account, in your name, with your mother as guardian. He made arrangements, at that time, to have a monthly deposit wired from the Bank of Ireland. For your future, your education, your financial security.”
Now she gripped her hands together as they trembled, too. “You’re sure.”
“I am.” He handed her the coffee, then took his own and sat, not behind the beautiful desk with its computer but in the chair beside hers. “I arranged it for him. He came into the office, opened the account. I’ve been managing it since that time.”
“Has he—has he been in touch with you?”
“Not since that time, no. The deposits come. Your mother has overseen the account. She’s been scrupulous, as I told you. If you’ve looked over the reports, you’ll see she’s never taken out a penny. We have quarterly meetings, more if there’s something we need to discuss. I had no reason to think you were unaware.”
“Do you have many clients—Am I a client?”
He smiled at her. “Yes.”
“Do you have many clients who take no interest at all in an account worth almost four million dollars? I know Allied’s a prestigious firm, and that’s probably a small account, but it’s still a great deal of money.”
He took a moment, and she knew he chose his words with great care. “There are situations where a parent or guardian, a trustee, may be better suited to make the financial decisions.”
“I’m an adult. She’s not my guardian.” She felt it, sensed it, knew it. “She told you I was irresponsible, unable to handle money.”
“Ms. Kelly—Breen—I don�
��t want to get personal. I can tell you, without hesitation, your mother has always had your well-being in mind. With your issues . . .”
“What are my issues?” The anger rose up again, so much better than the nerves. “Irresponsible. Not too bright either, am I? Maybe even just a little slow on the scale.”
He actually flushed a little. “She certainly never said anything like that directly.”
“Just implied. Well, let’s get to know each other, Mr. Ellsworth. I have a master’s degree in education—hard earned just this past winter, and for which I owe a mountain of student debt.”
She saw the stunned look, nodded.
“I teach language arts at Grady Middle School, and have since I graduated from college—already with considerable hills of debt despite working two part-time jobs. I’m happy to give you the name of my principal, names of various professors.”
“That won’t be necessary. I was under the impression you didn’t work, or hadn’t kept a job.”
“I’ve worked since I was sixteen—summers, weekends. I still work through the summer, to pay off that debt, and I private tutor two evenings a week for the same reason.”
Tears began to swirl in her eyes, but they were hot, hot with anger. “I shop sales or thrift stores, have a roommate. I balance my bank account—such as it is—to the penny every month. I—”
“Here now. Here.” He closed a hand over hers. “I’m very sorry there’s been this—”
“Don’t call it a misunderstanding, not when it was deliberate. My father wanted this money for me. Instead I waited tables and took out loans to pay for college when the money he sent for me would’ve—it would’ve changed my life. Knowing he sent anything would’ve changed my life.”
She set the coffee aside, pulled in a breath to try to compose herself. “I’m sorry. This is my mother’s doing, not yours. Why wouldn’t you believe her? You said I was your client.”
“You are, and we’re going to fix this. When is Jennifer due back?”
“Next week, but I need to know something now. Is this my money?”
“Yes.”
“So I’m authorized to withdraw funds, transfer funds.”
“Yes, but I think it would be best to wait until your mother’s back, for the three of us to sit down and talk.”
“I’m not interested in that. I want to transfer funds, establish another account—in my name only. Can I do that?”
“Yes. I can set up an account for you. How much do you want to transfer?”
“All of it.”
“Breen—”
“All of it,” she repeated. “Or when I meet with you and my mother, I’ll have a lawyer, and I’ll sue her for, I don’t know, embezzlement.”
“She hasn’t touched the money.”
“I’m sure a lawyer will know what term to use. I want my money so the next time I sit down to pay bills I can pay off my student debt and take a full breath again. This money came from my father into your hands. He trusted you to do the right thing by me. I’m asking you to do the right thing.”
“You’re of age. You can sign a document to have your mother’s name removed from the account. I’ll need to see your identification, you’ll need to fill out some forms. I’ll need to call in one of our notaries and a witness.”
He laid a hand over hers again. “Breen, I believe you. But would you mind giving me the name and number of the principal at your school? Just for my own peace of mind.”
“Not at all.”
CHAPTER TWO
By the time Breen walked into Sally’s, the place was in full swing. Colored lights streamed over the crowded bar, the packed tables. The spotlight beamed on Cher—or Sally’s version thereof—belting out “If I Could Turn Back Time.”
Truer words, Breen thought.
She made her way through the enthusiastic crowd, even managed to smile when someone waved or called her name.
Marco caught her eye, bless him, sent her a quick salute as he mixed drinks.
He wore a spangled silver shirt—Sally’s was a spangly place—snug black pants, and a silver hoop in one ear. Recently he’d started sporting a little goatee, and she thought it suited him, like the long braids he tied back. His cocoa skin gleamed.
Sally’s was hot, in more ways than one.
“Geo, give our girl a seat.”
“No, no, that’s okay.”
But Geo, small, thin, and resplendent in red, hopped right off the stool.
“You sit, sweetie pie. I gotta make the rounds anyway.” He gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Our baby looks tired.”
“I guess I am.”
She took the stool while Marco filled an order. Then poured her a glass of white wine.
“You’re late—and you didn’t even change. That’s some sad outfit, girl.” Then his eyebrows shot up when she downed half the glass in one go.
“Okay, that looks like the end of a rough day.”
“Rough, strange, scary, exhilarating.”
And she burst into tears.
“Geo! I’m taking my break.”
He rushed through the pass-through, grabbed Breen’s arm, and pulled her with him into the backstage area.
A couple of the performers sat in front of the Hollywood lights on their makeup counters, gossiping.
“Ladies, we need the room.”
One of them, done up gorgeous like Gaga, pulled Breen into an embrace. “There, baby girl! It’s all going to be all right. You trust Jimmy now. No man’s worth your tears.”
Another kiss on the cheek, and with Sally moving into “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves,” Marco sat Breen down.
“What happened, honey? Tell me everything.”
“I—my father—”
Marco gripped her hand tighter. “He got in touch?”
“No, no, but he—Marco, he’s been sending money since I was ten. He started an account, an investment account with Allied, and he’s wired money every month. She didn’t tell me. She never told me, kept it locked in a drawer. And all this time . . .”
She looked down at her hands. “I forgot my wine.”
“I’ll go get it.”
“Wait. It’s . . . Marco, I have as of today, because there were dividends and—I have to learn about all of this. But as of today, I have three million, eight hundred and seventy-eight thousand, five hundred and ninety-six dollars and thirty-five cents.”
He goggled at her. “Did you have a dream or something? Baby, you know sometimes you have those dreams.”
“No. I’ve just come from a meeting with my broker. I have almost four million dollars, Marco.”
“You sit right here—don’t move. I’m going to get the wine. I’m going to get the bottle.”
She sat, and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror.
Really pale, she realized, eyes tired. She’d pulled out her hair tie, and the work she’d done that morning blowing it smooth was wrecked. And the brown rinse she used once a week to calm down the red—too much attention, too distracting—had faded to mouse.
Didn’t matter, she thought. Just didn’t matter. As soon as she unloaded herself on Marco, she’d go home, lie down. Grading papers had to wait until her head cleared. Since she intended to drink at least two glasses of wine before she walked home, it wouldn’t be cleared tonight.
He came back with the bottle, two glasses, poured each before he sat.
“I think let’s backtrack a little. How did you find out?”
“It’s the strangest thing, Marco.”
And she told him everything.
“I gotta go back here a minute,” Marco said. “You went to this guy’s, this broker guy’s office, by yourself? That was brave, Breen.”
“I didn’t know what else to do. I was so mad.”
“Who tells you you need to get mad more?”
A smile flitted. “You do.”
“Like I’m saying now you need to stay mad when you talk to your mom.”
“Oh God.” She dropped her head
into her hands—really wanted to drop it between her knees.
“Don’t you go jellyfish now.”
He glanced back as Sally, in full Cher, glided into the room. Salvador Travino put one hand on the hip of his knockoff Bob Mackie sequined gown, flipped back the waist-length fall of wig.
“They’re backed up at the bar, Marco. What the fuck?”
“Sorry, Sally. Breen—”
Sally shot up a finger, heavily lashed eyes narrowing on Breen’s face. “Are you sick, my darling girl?”
“No, no. I’m so sorry. I just . . .”
“You look sick.” He cupped Breen’s chin in his hand. “Pale as a genuine virgin on her wedding night. Is it that asshole, Grant?”
“No, nothing like that.”
“Good, ’cause he’s not worth it. When did you eat last?”
“I . . .” She couldn’t quite remember.
“Just what I thought. Marco, you take our girl home, and get her some food. You got any red meat?”
“Um, probably not.”
Sally shook his head, executed a perfect Cher-style hair flip-back. Then gave a come-ahead with one hand. “Give me your phone. I can’t keep one in this outfit.”
Taking Marco’s phone, he tapped in a number, tapped his glittery gold stiletto. “Beau, you handsome bastard, it’s Sally. I’m better than I look and I look fabulous. I need you to put a couple of your cheese-steak specials together for me, for pickup. Yeah, the works, my man. Put it on my tab. Marco’s coming by for them. I’ll see you soon, and give that pretty wife and gorgeous baby of yours kisses for me. And here’s one for you.”
He made a long smacking sound, then handed the phone to Marco.
“You go by Philly Pride, get those cheesesteaks. Then, Breen, you get out of those clothes and into some pj’s. You should listen to Sally and toss those clothes right out the window for somebody with no fashion sense to pick up.”
“I can’t leave you in the lurch on a Friday night,” Marco began, and got the withering eye.
“You don’t think I can handle the stick? Boy, I’ve been handling sticks—of all natures—since before you were out of diapers. And looking as good as I do, I expect to rake in some fine tips. Take that girl home.”