A Bird Without Wings

by Roberta Pearce

  Lucius winced.

  “How you won the math award every year between Grades Eight and Twelve. Your track-and-field trophies. Your first date with a girl named Stephanie, who wasn’t nearly good enough for you, though a very nice girl. That your favourite music is ’nineties grunge. That you play both electric and acoustic guitar and had long hair and a garage band with your friends in high school. That you left the band suddenly, cut your hair, started dressing in blazers, and demanded to be sent to a private school far, far away from the family, and how they compromised with a private school here. How the black-on-black suit and tie you wore to prom made you look like an elegant gangster, and the blonde vixen, Ashley, your date, who wasn’t nearly good enough for you though a very nice girl, vixen-status notwithstanding. And all the girls before and since who were all nice girls but not nearly good enough for you. How proud everyone was when you were accepted to McGill. How disappointed they were that you left the country entirely and went to Cambridge instead. Shall I go on?”

  A slight flush had crept across his cheekbones. “No. Please don’t. Holy crap.”

  “Oh, and there were photo albums.”

  He swore.

  “Your own fault.”

  “Yeah.” He chuckled, still embarrassed.

  Taking amused pity on him, she returned the conversation to the HRF. “As with Gordon, what no one could tell me was how the legend of the HRF began. Oh, they all had their theories of what it might be, but the origins of it were vague. The best I can surmise that it began with Piers, your great grandfather, who had started a rumour that Carlyle served in the Boer War—”

  “You didn’t mention that to Gramps when you spoke to him of Piers starting the search.”

  “No,” she conceded. “I haven’t spoken to any of them of any of the theories others hold, even the theories of those long dead. I don’t want to influence the first flush of the telling. Regardless, about Carlyle and the Boer War, I think that somewhere at some time, someone associated South Africa with diamonds, and the legend of the HRF was born.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. And Carlyle wasn’t in the Boer War. Just WWI, with the CEF.”

  “Okay, so why can’t you find his birth record?”

  “Well, I asked a couple of genealogical experts online—had a very informative chat with them, explaining the problem. They suggested that perhaps the Ransome name had been mistranscribed in the indexes—transposed letters, incorrect first letter, and the like. It doesn’t happen often with the indexes, but it was the only thing they could think of, barring outright lack of registration. So I’m searching the indexes manually, five years on either side of 1880—looking for a name that could be close to his, but with some letters messed up. That’s why I wanted to know what the ‘H’ might stand for, if he were registered under a different first name. Because mistranscription of Ransome aside, I can’t find so much as an appropriate Carlyle Smith.”

  “That sounds painstaking and boring for something that can’t possibly matter.”

  “If anything remains unanswered or unaddressed, it leaves the family room to keep the legend alive. As soon as I announce I can’t find his birth record, they’ll imagine he was an imposter-gypsy-changeling with a leprechaun’s pot of gold,” she said with slight disgust.

  He laughed, leaning towards her. “I’d buy that story. When I was a kid, I always fantasised that gypsies would come and kidnap me, save me from the family.”

  She subjected him to a mockingly doleful glare. “Believe me, you didn’t want that. My fantasy was that I was the long-lost switched-at-birth child of wealthy eccentrics. One day, they would find me and take me away from the gypsy caravan that was my life, and give me hot meals, a decent dress, and a pony.”

  Remembering that faded photo of the laughing-sad wraith in the shabby dress, he inhaled sharply at the humoured pathos of the statement, delivered with her mouth curved in the bittersweet smile he now knew so well.

  “Did you want a pony?” he quipped lightly once he could trust his voice.

  “I didn’t not want one,” she replied, some of the bitter leaking away to sweeten the curve, and she winked.

  “Come here.” Running a hand beneath her hair, he cupped her nape, drawing her in for a gentle kiss.

  “What was that for?” she asked breathily.

  “Me.”

  “Well, I happily benefitted, too.”

  How he liked that quick, honest, uncomplicated smile!

  But wry bitterness singed it again as the ring of her cell phone intruded “That’ll be Leon. Do you mind if take it?”

  He handed her phone over as answer. “I thought you were avoiding him.”

  She shook her head, a little resigned, but still smiling. “Maybe this time he’ll be lucky. He’s very smart. Eventually he’ll get it right.”

  He rose to give her at least the illusion of privacy, taking their coffee cups to refill.

  “Hi, big brother! . . . Sorry, work’s been crazy . . . Wait, wait! No details!” She laughed. “I’m sure you’re doing what you think best, and you know I have no head for these things . . .”

  Lucius shot her an astonished look. Her voice was girlish, with just a hint of What? Little me understanding complicated things? Another puzzle piece . . . he didn’t like this one.

  “Give me a few days . . . No!” A bit horrified now. “Not at my work. We’ll meet for lunch—or after work. Call me Tuesday . . . Okay . . . Yep . . . Love you, too. Bye.”

  Then she was out of her chair, taking out her laptop and booting it up, donning her cheaters as she resumed her seat. A glance at the screen moments later confirmed that she was signing into her online banking.

  Lounging again in his chair, he indulged himself with a few moments of pleased observation of the girl who seemed in constant shift between personalities, as occasion suited her. Her long hair, mostly dry now, drawn up to just graze her shoulders in a chaos of tiny, springy coils; the sweet little frown her asymmetrical brows formed over her eyes; how her little nose wrinkled in concentration. Generally, she looked like her mother, but many of her facial expressions and mannerisms were carbon-copied from her father.

  Shifting his position to take a piece of melon from the array of fruit, he snuck another look at the screen; she was reviewing a broker’s statement. He recognised the company logo—good brokerage.

  “What’re you doing?” he asked, playing stupid. “You’d better not be working.”

  “No,” she said absently. “Picking stock to liquidate.”

  “Mm. For Leon?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mm.” He bit into the sweet fruit, chewed, swallowed, then asked casually, “Want me to advise you on that?”

  Her head whipped around, her eyes wide and shocked. Her face went deathly pale, bright red, and back to white again.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said snappishly. “Don’t have a stroke.”

  “Would you?” she whispered. “Would you really, Lucius?” She gulped. Tears filled her unblinking, huge eyes, and one, magnified slightly by the reading glasses, spilled in a dramatic stream down her smooth cheek.

  Hell, she doesn’t even cry like a normal woman! No sobs; no crumpling.

  “Hey, don’t do that,” he muttered. “I’d be happy to assess your finances.”

  “No,” she said firmly, mostly recovering her normal calm. “It’s not right.”

  “Why not? I won’t tell anyone,” he joked.

  Again the shocked look. “Of course you wouldn’t! But I can’t ask—! Your services are very expensive and special, and—”

  “They are,” he agreed, puzzled.

  “And to ask you to assess my portfolio . . . Your reputation in financial circles is—unassailable. But LCR Consulting is for wealthy, high-end clients, and to ask you for a freebie consult on my paltry funds . . . well, it would be the epitome of shameful.”

  “You’re not asking. I’m offering. Geez, Cal,” he scolded impatient
ly, pushing aside his plate and reaching for the laptop. “It’s a bit of free advice for someone I like and who has been very helpful to me. I’d do it for someone much further down the ranks of my intimates. My friends always bug me for advice, and they even sometimes take it. Complete opposites from the family,” he grinned, trying to put her at ease.

  “It’s not much,” she warned, jumping up to lean over his shoulder, pointing at the screen. “Chequing, savings, RRSP, and then the portfolio—the PDF, here—which isn’t much—”

  “You know,” he said, closing the lid, almost catching her fingers, “I have some familiarity with these things.”

  “Oh. Oh, of course.”

  She was too distracting at any rate, the tumble of curls tickling his face and neck, the warmth of her half-naked body pressed against his arm and shoulder.

  “Why don’t you take that tome of notes of yours out to the deck and conjure up some explanation for the Birds?”

  “Okay,” she agreed hesitantly.

  “There’s bottled water in the bar fridge by the barbecue,” he instructed as she moved slowly to obey. “Keep hydrated.”

  Once the door closed behind her, he started his review. Feeling a bit guilty for spying but very annoyed thinking about that thick envelope she had given her mother, the first thing he did was look at recent cash withdrawals—and there it was.

  A long line of inventive expletives spilled out. How long had she been throwing money at her useless parents? A quick review of six months’ worth of transactions showed two cheques for equivalent amounts. The cheque images . . . there we are. Lorraine Dahl.

  She was siphoning off her savings for her parents.

  Cursing again, his gaze moved to the deck where she had curled up in the deep shade of the arbour, surrounded by creamy roses that matched her skin. It was none of his business, of course. He was at-sea again, though, torn between anger and relief. He had been worried about her obsession with money (how ironic that that criticism had come from the very people who benefitted so well from her fixation), not wanting his Admirable Companion candidate to be either miserly or looking for a meal ticket.

  No, she was just doing what needed to be done in order to provide for those she loved, even if it meant a hit to her personal goals.

  Clenching his teeth, he went through each of her accounts, surprised at the amount she had saved, and how few transactions were there. Paycheque deposited; funds shuffled. She never used her credit or debit card (the recent shopping notwithstanding), and drew out enough cash at the beginning of each month to get her through daily expenses—groceries and personal, he guessed—and a damned small amount that was. The only other expenses were rent, cell, and transit.

  He chuckled dryly. Holy discipline, Batman.

  Her rent was dirt cheap; good, because if she paid a dime more to live in that eddy-of-Hell house, he’d have to throttle her. Well, at least say something firm about it.

  Still, she had a lot of cash on hand. The savings account . . . He snooped through the statements archive. She’d been saving a long time. And there, quarterly deposits from her brokerage. Very decent deposits. But it shouldn’t be sitting in a savings account, earning virtually nothing. She should be rolling it back into her portfolio.

  At last, he switched to the portfolio. And gave a long whistle of appreciation.

  Chapter Eleven

  Eyes closed, all she could think of was someone I like and high up in the ranks of my intimates.

  Okay, that was a bit of a paraphrase in the ranking part, but still . . .

  Oh, dear.

  The blinkers were only supposed to have been shaken off for a moment, but now they seemed gone and she wasn’t sure where they had fallen. How would she refocus after this summer fling was done? He was going to leave a huge gap in her life when he was gone.

  Scattered reassurances flowed through her mind: You’re going to be okay. It isn’t love. You don’t do love. Just have a good time now. Enjoy him; enjoy this time. It’s a once-in-a-lifetime thrill, and will probably end long before he returns to England. You’ll be alone and focused again soon.

  That was very practical advice, if somewhat disturbing.

  A gasp left her and her body arched as a warm, mobile mouth moved over hers.

  Lucius raised his head, smiling into her dazed eyes. “Hi.”

  “Hi.” She sat up, and he lowered his long body to sit beside her.

  He handed her a printout of her portfolio, which he had marked up, and began a verbal overview of buy, sell, and hold advice. Turning the page over, he showed her a list he had written out, of stocks and bonds and the like, with percentages of investment.

  “This is what you want your portfolio to look like. Take this to your broker. But in the next couple of days, sell this,” he flipped the page again and pointed. “It’s likely peaked, and the dividend is pretty low. Buy these instead.” He pointed to a short list of stocks he had written as marginalia, along with investment range amounts. “Especially this. It’s excessively undervalued now. Probably won’t pay out a dividend until next year, but in two, you’ll be happy you bought at this price.”

  “Okay,” she said hesitantly. The purpose was to liquidate, not reinvest. She flipped open her cell, ready to call her broker and leave an urgent message. “Thank you so, so much.”

  “Hold on,” he cautioned, putting a hand over hers and closing the phone with a snap. “Have your broker sell it and dump it all into the new stock for now. Dividends will be paid out in a week or so, so you can liquidate after that for Leon. No point doing it sooner. But, Cal . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s none of my business, but you have enough cash on deposit to cover Leon, and then some.”

  “That’s for emergencies, though.”

  “What emergencies? You don’t have a mortgage, a car, or anything that would need a hunk of cash except for family.”

  “Well . . . what if the market crashed? All I’d have left is my savings.”

  “Speaking of which, that should all be moved into a TFSA. Get your broker to set it up—yell at him for not doing it before—and buy these,” he pointed. “Regarding a crash, your entire portfolio is dividend stock. Solid, steady stuff—no high-risk, and very little medium-risk. It might slump, but never crash.” He tilted her chin up. “Why haven’t you bought a home yet?”

  “I don’t have enough to do that.”

  He uttered a puzzled laugh. “Most people could only hope to be in the financial position you are when they buy a home. You can buy something pretty nice and have a mortgage carry like rent.”

  “But what if I lost my job?” she objected. “Couldn’t make the mortgage?”

  “That’s not going to happen,” he said rather gently. “Calandra Dahl will always have a future—and a job—with the Ransome Group. And even if that weren’t true . . . sometimes, doll, you just have to risk it.”

  “Maybe,” she hedged, with no intention of doing so. It was fine for him to be so cavalier—he hadn’t ever been poor. And she had no intention of being poor again. She wondered idly what it would be like never to worry about money. To never even think about it.

  Must be nice.

  Yes, he scorned his family’s decadent ways, but perhaps that wasn’t so much about the money per se, but rather the wastefulness of it; the lack of energy and drive it represented, as if the Ransomes were—like that postmodern throng of the famous-for-being-famous set—some odd collection of spoiled Emperor-brats walking a red carpet without any discernible talent to clothe them. The things the Ransomes—and their once-large fortune—could have accomplished . . . they could have changed the world, or at least impacted it in positive ways. Falcontor had once been on the cutting edge of R&D; every one of the subsidiary companies represented specialisations that had spun out of that swell of talented energy.

  All of that was fifteen, twenty years gone. Was that decline what teenaged Lucius had witnessed and, with the burgeoning percipience that marked his
stellar career, caused his rebellion against the wastrels?

  Though rebels should grow their hair and join a rock band, not the reverse.

  But her humour faded rapidly as her assessment of him spawned an assessment of how she fitted into his world. The obvious answer was not at all. While one could argue that they shared some common philosophies and, let’s face it, sexual chemistry, they were miles apart.

  The tragedy and reality of that struck her heavily, and along with it came the realisation that she had been entertaining something more than a summer fling with him.

  “It’s the paradox of thrift,” he was saying, for while her mind wandered into depressing contemplation, he had stayed in the moment.

  “The what of what?” she demanded.

  “Paradox of thrift. You. Were everyone to live like this,” he waved the page of her slim finances, “our entire civilisation—or at least, the economy, which is frighteningly attached to same—would collapse.”

  “Why?” she queried, intrigued by the concept rather than offended that he had cast her in the role of prototype doom-bringer.

  “Because if people don’t spend money, there is no demand for products and services. Companies close, people lose their jobs, and they end up poorer than if they hadn’t saved at all.”

  She frowned, considering that. “That’s . . . Keynesian economics?” she asked uncertainly.

  “Yes, doll,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “You do have a lot trotting around in that pretty little brain, don’t you?”

  The description of her brain being pretty was a higher compliment from this man than if he had applied the same to her looks (which she wouldn’t have believed in any case), but newly discovered vanity had her wishing for lies.