Beyond the Storm (9780758276995)

by Pittman, Joseph

  “These are people who have no trouble buying vowels,” Patch said. That had been the night before the up and coming in the firm Adam Blackburn was scheduled—yes, scheduled! —to meet the aforementioned, and apparently available, Sarah Jane Stockdale. “They can do what they want. Good luck.”

  The circumstances surrounding the meeting between born-on-the-wrong-side-of-the-tracks Adam Blackburn and blue-blood, DAR Sarah Jane Stockdale was to be handled in the form of a corporate outing, assuring both parties that nothing untoward could possibly happen. The lofty investment firm of Koch, Franklin, and Cohn was sponsoring a fund-raiser in support of cancer research, and all partners and junior level people were expected to attend. What nobody knew, certainly not Adam, was that the entire afternoon’s soirée was a mere front—its sole purpose was to find college-grad Sarah Jane a husband. Wait, correct that, a suitable husband. If they happened to raise money and awareness for cancer in the meantime, all the more power to them, not to mention clocking a tax write-off doubling as a debutante ball. Now, here’s the other thing Adam didn’t know: He wasn’t the only potential suitor being carted out before the prize steed. Of course, that wasn’t how it was presented to him the day before the cruise.

  Five o’clock on a warm, humid summer Friday, in the high floors of the lower Manhattan offices of the so-nicknamed KFC, Adam was tidying up some details on a few last-minute transactions his clients had begged for before the long holiday weekend, and he couldn’t think straight. Numbers were a jumbled mess on his computer screen. He was looking forward to a weekend away from the rat race, from the idiots he worked for, and from the whole financial circuitry that consumed most of his waking hours. Of course, knowing his escape was imminent meant his bosses would suddenly conjure other plans for him, and true to their nature, a knock came at his door, and before waiting for a response . . . a welcome, his door opened. In walked one of the senior partners, Carpenter Franklin, his bald, shiny head adorned with beads of sweat on a high brow. His cheeks were flush. These high-level guys who made it this far up in the firm’s hierarchy, they all had names that sounded like presidents and bodies one stress test away from a heart attack.

  “Burnie, cancel your plans this weekend, you’re busy.”

  “Uh, sir, you’re right. I am busy.”

  “And now, Burnie, you’re going to be even busier.”

  This Burnie thing, it was annoying as much as it was unavoidable. His immediate boss had this habit of calling everyone by their last name, but with Adam he’d decided that Blackburn possessed too many syllables. So it was shortened to Burnie, despite the fact it took just as long to say that as did to say Blackburn. Half the company thought his real name was Bernie.

  “Let me guess, sir. Black tie.”

  “Wrongo, Burnie, break out the prep-school wear,” he said.

  “I didn’t attend prep school, sir.”

  “Ohh, keep that detail to yourself. It won’t win you any friends.”

  “I’ve done fine so far.”

  “So far being the key phrase.”

  Franklin also still sounded like a frat boy, even though he’d been bald longer than Adam had been alive. “Regardless of your background, this is a cruise. Daytime. Adapt.”

  “Ah, time to drag out the J.Crew uniform. I’ll have to go shopping.”

  “Tomorrow. Two o’clock. Don’t bring the sarcasm.”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  Carpenter Franklin grinned, like he’d scored a big windfall. “Your future.”

  Adam’s future was not to be found on any New York Waterways ferry to New Jersey—hardly. This was a private luxury yacht afforded only by the disgustingly wealthy, set to hove off from the piers on the West Side for a daylong cruise around Manhattan Island. As Adam boarded the gangplank the next day and hoping not to befall a fate with these moneyed pirates—boat shoes on his feet, navy blue sweater wrapped jauntily around his Oxford-cloth white shirt, khaki pants perfectly ironed—he knew he was a far cry from the paddleboats of Lake Ontario. Danton Hill really was but a distant memory, and as he meandered around the upper deck with a glass of champagne, the whole world turned shiny, like new money gleaned through his sunglasses. Still, he could not have asked for a better setting to put his best (boat) shoe forward. Growing up in a coastal village, Adam was acquainted well enough with the water, its swells and smells, the rocking motion created by waves both natural and human. He was equally adept on large watercraft as he was in a canoe. From childhood, boating had been something he was at ease with, and so feeling the gentle motion of the yacht on this day was equal to a calming breeze off the lake.

  Looking around, Adam watched as dozens of well-turned-out people mingled, most of them coming from an older, preserved generation—the partners, their tanned wives, mothers, aunts, possibly a few younger mistresses tossed in to make it interesting. He’d hate to see this yacht crash against the pier, the folks here would stain the Hudson a royal azure, what with all this blue blood coursing onboard.

  “Ah, Blackburn, very good.”

  In short order of being found by the senior partner, Carpenter Franklin, Adam was whisked away while simultaneously being handed a fresh glass of pricey champagne. It was cold and it woke him up, the bubbles reminding him this day was not without some purpose. He was escorted to a lower deck and a private stateroom, figuring he was about to find out. He was told to stand before another tastefully decorated man who wore an ascot. Adam grabbed the sleeves of his sweater, made sure it was secure on his shoulders. There were also three other men, all approximately Adam’s age. He recognized one of them from his own firm; he was tall and tanned and his blond hair was perfectly coiffed, so much so the windy seas would not be much of a challenge to it. Who the other two “chosen” gentlemen gathered were, Adam hadn’t a clue. His guess, they were rising stars at other, competing firms. He felt he was on a high-priced version of The Dating Game.

  “Gentlemen,” the ascot-turned man said, not bothering to introduce himself. He had an air about him that assumed everyone knew who he was. “Thank you for being here on this fine Memorial Day weekend. I realize the timing of this matter came as rather short notice and the method quite unorthodox, but I believe that if you strike when the iron is hot, you can avoid any unnecessary wrinkles. My lovely daughter Sarah Jane, a breath of fresh air on any ocean, is home from the Continent for two weeks, and it is my duty that she be properly entertained during her stay. She is, of course, onboard today, and each of you will be afforded a chance at getting acquainted with her. Keeping things in nautical terms, my Sarah Jane is precious cargo, and she is to be handled . . . accordingly. Thank you.”

  With that, Whoever He Was left the stateroom.

  “Should we have saluted?” Adam asked.

  Only Carpenter Franklin, who had remained behind in the shadows, frowned. The other three men didn’t move a muscle and Adam had to wonder if they’d already suffered from too many Botox injections. At this point, they all appeared like they wouldn’t want to be caught dead with Adam; the smart-mouth with the bad attitude was always trouble. Without a word, they just cleared out of the room. Apparently the pistol had gone off, the gates opened, and the race was on for the fastest thoroughbred to put his best hoof forward in search of the winner’s circle. Adam was the last to leave the stateroom, but not before he drank down his champagne in one gulp. He left the glass on the table, and also left behind a head-shaking Carpenter Franklin. Perhaps his boss was questioning having chosen Adam for this highly sensitive project.

  But enough with the first race. He’d lost that one.

  He knew he would soon be trotted out to meet the lovely Sarah Jane Stockdale.

  She wore a vibrant hue of blue that day, which, when backed up against the sunlit sky, made her blend beautifully into the background, challenging nature’s beauty. The whole picture complemented her honey-blond hair and her apple-cheeked goodness. She was prim and she was proper and she also knew her father was watching her every move, from the
upturn of her lips when she laughed to her hand reaching out to touch someone’s sleeve. Her grandmother too was ever-present, one of those miserly old broads who could make God count his blessings. Sarah Jane laughed when required, shunned a second cocktail, pretended to be cold, only to be embraced by the sweater off the shoulders of the men fortunate to be chosen to dwell in her company. But when it was Adam’s turn, and really what other term was there, he put on his best upper-crust attitude and acted properly by extending a hand, being polite and charming but not overly forward. He offered her champagne, and her reply took him by surprise.

  “You too? Oh, I expected different. God, I’d kill for a scotch.”

  Adam paused, momentarily distracted by her forthright, as well as her unexpected nature. As he leaned against the deck’s rail, ironically staring at the very building in Lower Manhattan in which he worked, the one that provided him his livelihood, his decent bank account, his freedom, then considered his answer very carefully. “No hard stuff, not here. On our first date? I’ll take you to a place where you can drink whatever you want and swear like a sailor.”

  “Oh, goody,” she said, clapping her hands. “I knew I was going to like you the best, Adam. You don’t seem as . . . prepared as the others. But you’ll have to wait, I still have to suffer through one more horrid introduction, but trust me—it won’t take long,” she said, rolling her eyes enough to make one seasick. She pointed to the boat’s stern. “Do you see that blond helmet he calls hair? It doesn’t move, I don’t even think a shower dampens it. And his name is Skipper. I think his parents hated him when he was conceived. Or each other.”

  Ouch. She didn’t take any prisoners, this surprising Sarah Jane Stockdale. Still, Adam put on his best smile because, in truth, who knew what she’d said about him to one of the other money models. Probably some comment about a fish out of water. Adam would happily jump back in, swim his way back to the shores of reality. But no, he told Sarah Jane, “I’ll be waiting right here.” Then he paused, for dramatic, and effective, effect. “Sarah.”

  He didn’t add the “Jane.” On purpose.

  She smiled widely over that. Not a social gaffe, turns out, but a turn-on.

  So, not only did Sarah Jane Stockdale, heir to some kind of bean fortune, get to drink as much scotch on her first date with Adam Blackburn at a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, blocks from the piers where they had met, she got to swear up a storm and make a fifty-ish man who’d been in his share of bar fights blush, and in the process she relaxed and let down her hair and much later, she even took off her clothes and got fucked all night by the renegade trader whom her parents and grandmother would have passed over without a shed of doubt, one she’d deliberately chosen for the same such reason. Her word, calling him a renegade, all while asking him to take her back to his place.

  “This I could get used to,” she said as she lay in a sweaty mess amidst tangled sheets.

  Adam stared at the ceiling, wondering just what the hell he’d gotten himself into.

  And then, at her urging, he’d gotten himself back into her.

  All while thinking, how about that, Adam Blackburn, once a refugee from remote Danton Hill, now a sexual toy for one of New York’s society girls. She confessed that he wasn’t the first man she’d been with, it wasn’t her first time, and Adam confessed that he could tell. Nor would it be her last encounter with Adam, whom, in the afterglow, she admitted, her father had referred to as the “long shot.”

  “Gee, thanks,” he’d said. “That bodes well for our future.”

  “Pay no attention to my family. They don’t make my decisions.”

  “Didn’t seem that way on the yacht.”

  “Daddy is a pushover,” she said. “Adam Blackburn, you rock my world.”

  “So you’re choosing me over Daddy?”

  She kissed him, stroked him.

  “Who says I have to choose?” she said with easy petulance. “Now, just make me forget where I came from. Nothing proper.”

  Adam threw himself into her demands.

  A sensational whirlwind romance ensued that became small pieces of gossip in the New York Post, and in the corridors of KFC’s Manhattan offices. Privileged Sarah Jane Stockdale and an unknown trader named Adam Blackburn, who got ink and photos because he was handsome, especially beside the blond and beautiful heiress, they were never without plans after work, on the weekends. Dinner parties at her demanding grandmother’s penthouse on Sutton Place, stuffy weekends of tennis at the sprawling estate in Greenwich, Connecticut, each visit accompanied by an interrogation by her family, always politely disguised as curious, enlivening conversation. Where do you see yourself in five years? Where will you summer? How many children do you see yourself stuffing inside an SUV? Like there were choices listed on the million-dollar menu, one from column A, one from column B. Frankly, Adam always felt tempted to answer that he saw himself with the American average of two-point-five children, but of course rich people didn’t like handicaps. So Adam said the right things, he was courteous and attentive and even played against—and lost to, graciously and willingly—Grandmother in a few gin-soaked rounds of gin rummy. At tennis, with his weak backhand and failure to follow through on his swing, he let his prospective father-in-law triumph handily on the family’s clay courts, as the man ended each match with a slap of Adam’s shoulder and saying, “Next time, maybe I’ll let you win.”

  But of course he didn’t, he couldn’t, or he wouldn’t allow himself.

  Just like Grandmother.

  The Stockdales were only happy when they won.

  As a result of his newfound association with the privileged, competitive Stockdale family, Adam Blackburn’s own stock began to skyrocket, both in society and in financial circles. Not only did he and Sarah Jane get invited to the swankiest, most exclusive parties in town and out in the country during the season, new clients at KFC who considered “wealthy” an understatement started consulting with Adam on what to buy, what to sell, who to crush in the ever-demanding arena of stocks, investments, portfolios. To these movers and shakers, the stock market was their personal game of Monopoly, and like when he played with the Stockdales, he knew to let them win. They’d better win. They all wanted Adam to purchase them Boardwalk.

  Of course, as it would turn out, they would barely escape with Baltic Avenue.

  And Adam Blackburn, sucked into this world and unable to extricate himself when things began to swirl downward, well, to keep the famed Monopoly game metaphor going, he nearly needed that “Get Out of Jail Free” card.

  CHAPTER 9

  NOW

  The word jail loomed between them, especially considering the prison they found themselves in today, albeit one filled with temptations of the vine and of the flesh. Adam had rarely spoken of the incident, surprising himself that he had just dropped such a bomb on an unsuspecting Vanessa, given the look of surprise evident on her open face. The flames of the fire flickered, casting shadows on the walls, and on her face too. Like she didn’t want to know the truth, the shadows delving deeper into his story. But he knew he had to continue, he wanted to share with her.

  “It’s okay, ask away. I know you want to.”

  She hesitated before saying, “What does that mean, jail? What did you do?”

  “Oh, there were never any official charges filed, nothing ever turned serious. Just a lot of threats and supposition and suspicion. And, well, a couple of depositions. It could have been worse for me, and it was worse for others.”

  Lying beside him, her fingers had been dancing lazily in the tufts on his chest as he’d told his tale of the proper young woman with the edgy personality and of their grand romance, feeling almost a part of the heat he and Sarah Jane had experienced, pulling away only when he’d spoken about legal trouble. She couldn’t help her reaction, she’d lived her whole life reacting with natural instinct. She recognized that Adam picked up on the change in her mood, the loss of her silky touch. Building a wall, and he recognized the materials required.r />
  “Still, to even sniff prison . . . Adam?”

  “You’re wondering whether I really went to jail?”

  Wondering why I’m such an idiot around you, was more in line with her thinking. “No, no, it’s just . . . well, the end of your story took me by surprise. Here, I thought you were telling me a tale of a doomed love affair, and instead . . .”

  “It was real life.”

  She understood that comment. “Were you detained by police, arrested? Lawyers?”

  “Like I said, depositions. But, Vanessa, I’m not a crook.”

  “Adam . . . I didn’t mean to imply . . .”

  “Never mind, I did just kind of drop that bomb,” he said.

  “There I was, telling you about Sarah Jane Stockdale and our whirlwind courtship and how she liked to knock back scotch when not in her family’s presence, and next thing I know I’m mentioning being carted off to jail. Just one night, but it was enough to make me realize my life had spiraled out of control, and it all came about once I met the Stockdales. Keep in mind, the transition from almost-fiancé to jailbird wasn’t quite as abrupt as I make it sound. Sarah Jane and I did have some good times. But when you’re involved with someone like her, you’re involved with her family, and with her family comes a bigger association: money.”

  “So what happened?”

  “Easy. The stock market crashed, big-time, and bankers became Public Enemy Number One. The recession hit, and the greed-mongers on Wall Street nearly threw the country into a second Great Depression. Jobs were slashed, unemployment skyrocketed, and investment firms and banks were suddenly seen as the devil. Once upon a time I could mention that I made my living as a stockbroker and it was my ticket to anywhere cool in the city. Clubs, bars, parties, I had money and cachet and life was damn good—no, better, it was great. I was having a blast and could afford most anything I wanted. You read any cautionary tale, though, you know the hero is going down at some point. He needs to learn his lesson until he can appreciate where he came from.” He paused. “Where I came from. Danton Hill.”