The Adored

  They lay in the sun silently after that decision; each with their own perceptions of what was occurring. Each with their own hopes of what this meant. At this moment if they laid out all they felt and all they were thinking, they would not have been apart by more than the breeze of a flapping butterfly wing.

  After some time Valerie spoke, “Now, can I talk with you about this opportunity?”

  “Isn’t that why we’re here?” Edward laughed.

  “You fuck,” she said laughing. They both giggled themselves silly at what they were finding in each other once again.

  Chapter 56

  The white Colonial home sits at the end of a private road in Old Greenwich, just up the road from Tod’s Point. Its smaller counterpart, the former carriage house on the estate, serves as the living quarters for Edward Wheelwright when he is not staying at his apartment in the city. It is to the right and front of the main house. The two acres overlook Long Island Sound. There is a tennis court in back of the carriage house and a swimming pool to the right of the main house in back of the tennis court. The main driveway was moved to the left of the property some years before, and when driving through the tall hedges and winding diagonally to the right, the Wheelwright estate appears before you: main house, pool, tennis court, and carriage house, all framed by the same high hedge that fronts the property.

  Val Samson always pictured herself as the mistress of the property, and as she and Edward pulled in through the hedges, she felt her pulse quicken.

  “This was to be my home,” she said to Edward.

  “It is to be your home,” Wheelwright responded. “Let’s see Dad first. Seeing you will cheer him up.”

  “When he heard we had split up, he was pissed,” he said as they pulled in front of the large home.

  “At me?” Val asked, puzzled.

  “No, of course not. At me. For ending our engagement. This will be a shock to him.”

  Inside his home, Mark Wheelwright, the former Senior Vice President for Risk Management at Oceans Bank, was playing it over in his mind. It was all there, all for the taking—the merger, bringing together the three main financial elements: banking, investment banking, and insurance. Then it was gone.

  Oceans Bank was a target from the beginning. Everyone wanted something from it. That was why it made perfect sense. But the target was too big. It couldn’t feed all the fish in the ocean. The capital demand in New York City was astounding. Everyone came calling; everyone saw the advantages of one-stop financial shopping. The borrowers, empire builders who wanted to create the next skyscraper to fit their egos pushed the bank for higher and higher leverage—less capital put in, more of the total cost borrowed, spread over longer and longer time frames. But it was all in a market that was overbuilt, with depressed rental prices.

  He lifted his glass, took a drink and said out loud, “What were we thinking?”

  And then he remembered, we were thinking we were big enough, we had the three-legged stool. The retail bank for the world, the investment bank for profit and tough times, and the backing of the insurance giant would outweigh the risks of recessionary times. Our ego started to match our customers. We were morphing, no longer bankers, our roots, and not yet the new moneymen for all seasons.

  There we were snug in the middle of Wall Street, admired for our inventiveness, for our boldness. But it was inevitable. The target was too big. After the borrowers came the beggars. Congressmen, senators, prospective presidents, all with their hands out. All offering us a seat at the table. Access. And we bellied up to the bar with them.

  The more we dealt with the borrowers and the beggars, the more we felt part of them. We saw the target also; it was enormous. We raised our salaries, our bonuses skyrocketed. We felt like ball players. Our parachutes were no longer golden; they were platinum. Payoffs for silence about the plunder were taking place.

  And the wealth spread across the world. Our offices reached everywhere. Civilization demanded prosperity, and we were capable of financing it all. Even the little guy wanted in. Sure, a home with nothing down, no payments for a year and low interest for five years. You don’t have a job; that’s hilarious. Get one. You’ll need it when the loan resets in five years or when the Fed raises rates. But for now, don’t worry about it. That’s what we told them. We didn’t learn from the dot com bubble. Same thing happened: big target, lots of money available. Start-up. Sure we can finance you. The banks became angel investors. The mentality of the investment bank permeated the lending bank. No revenue, no problem. You have a business plan; it’s on the back of a napkin? Your plant is in your garage? How much do you want? Then the crash of the technology bubble.

  Where was I, the risk guy? I was there. I was part of it. I saw it happening. I helped it happen. Sure I raised my hand, “But…”

  But I wasn’t effective. I raised my hand like the good traffic cop I was. Trying to slow the speeders down. I gave them warnings, and they said thank you and sped off.

  So now, I would be smarter, this time with the housing situation, we would all be smarter after the dot com ending.

  Still, though, the target was too big. After nine eleven we realized we had become a different kind of target. Terrorists saw us as evil. Saw capitalism as evil. Us. Bankers. Evil? And there it was. We had changed. We had become evil. Even the beggars were after us now. They saw us as a quick way from congressman to senator. We became a stepping stone from Attorney General to Governor. They were shoo-ins. Spitzer used us. Cuomo used us. The same guys that wanted to shackle us also made sure we paid a thousand dollars a plate for a table of ten at every rubber chicken dinner they popped in on. Damn. They were worse than us. They’d have us under indictment for conspiring to fix rates and at the same time have their underlings looking for us to send a bundle of contributions to the campaign. They expected a grand from every vice president in the bank. They even knew how many vice presidents we had—and it was too many.

  When they would find Oceans Bank in the cookie jar, they’d find fault using some law or other to find us conspiring. But never us as individuals, not by name. Always Oceans Bank. Always an exorbitant fine of three or four hundred million. Paid for by the bank, not by the guilty conspirators. By the bank, meaning the stockholders. But no one ever went to jail, not once. With Spitzer, he got ten banks all at once. Got them to pay one billion in fines. But not a single person went to jail, especially not Buck Simon.

  John Paul Simon knew his way around the beggars. He knew how to feed them. Our Chairman, my boss, was the cleverest. He had fought to have laws changed and barriers removed that would give him more elbow room in the crowded world financial marketplace. He had always felt after nine eleven that it was the Arabs against the Jews. He knew what the real target was. Or so he told me and everyone else.

  But John Paul Simon was the master of reputation building. First the financial supermarket, then the philanthropy, and the negotiated settlements, all to protect the reputation, all to protect him. He knew what leverage was, he knew how to grease palms, and he knew how to slip from the clutches of the beggars. With the competition he had the sharpest elbows in town. But even he, even Buck Simon, couldn’t hold back the tsunami that was the housing crisis, that became the financial crisis, that became the great recession. He could not stop our downfall. And it’s all gone. It was a tsunami; it wiped everything off the map. Oceans Bank is gone, in bankruptcy, a shell of its former self, trying to reorganize. They sold our building on John Street to London Equity Holdings. Most of the people are gone, laid off, and then eventually fired when there was nothing left. Everyone wiped out. Here I was risk executive for the biggest bank in the world and I had most of my life savings all tied up in Oceans stock—from fifty dollars a share to five hundredths of a cent—three hundred thousand shares worthless.

  Mark Wheelwright had played this story over and over in his mind every day for the past two years. And the story never changed. He picked up his glass. Took one more drink. From the window in the library of his
home, he looked out on the beauty of Long Island. He placed the glass of whiskey back on the desk and opened the desk draw. He looked at the gun and reached and touched it.

  “Dad,” Edward called out as he entered the rear door. “Dad, I have a surprise for you.”

  Quickly, Mark closed the drawer and turned the key to lock it. “In here Eddie,” and he rose to greet his son.

  And Edward and Valerie walked in.

  When Mark Wheelwright turned, there was his son and Valerie McGuire.

  A smile broke out on Wheelwright senior’s face. “I had a flashback. For a second I thought that was Val McGuire standing beside you.”

  And Valerie went to his arms and hugged him.

  “My God, it is you,” he said laughing.

  Valerie blushed. “It is so good to see you Mr. W.,” she said. “It’s been too long.”

  “It has been too long,” Eddie joined in.

  “So,” Mark paused, drawing out the “oh”, that meant, “what’s up here?”

  And on cue Eddie said, “Val and I are back together.”

  Valerie beamed at the confirmation. And they talked for a good hour. Val was married, had a son, but going to get a divorce. No, David does not know yet. He’s out of town.

  Eddie explained more fully to his father why he and Santa were no more and that Santa had moved on to Sebastian.

  And when Mark said to Valerie, “You must be more than a bit upset with her for what she did to you, breaking the two of you up.” Eddie was speechless.

  But not Valerie. She said quickly, “No, I don’t hate her for taking Eddie from me. She’s the reason he’ll do a better job loving me this time.”

  A tear came out of Eddie’s right eye. Valerie saw it, and she kissed his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “It’s OK; it’s true,” he said back softly. “I know it is,” she said and the three of them laughed like they had on so many occasions over years. Like the four of them used to.

  And they all realized that Mrs. Wheelwright was always a part of that laughter.

  “I’m so sorry, still, about Mrs. Wheelwright,” Valerie said.

  “Thank you, Val,” Mark said as he hugged Valerie again.

  “I didn’t love him. I loved you and Mrs. W.,” she said smiling.

  “Now about your son?” Mark Wheelwright asked.

  “Yes, he’s wonderful. Almost two now. I’ll bring him by tomorrow, if that’s alright?”

  “That would be wonderful,” the senior Wheelwright said.

  “Dad, we’re going to stay in the guesthouse tonight.”

  Mark Wheelwright said “OK, we’ll see you in the morning. Can we have breakfast together?”

  “Sure,” Edward said.

  “I don’t suppose you’ll be wanting to go to Mass with me in the morning?” Mark asked.

  Valerie spoke up, “Can we take a rain check till next Sunday.”

  “Yes, you can have a rain check anytime with me, Val,” the senior Wheelwright said, gave Val a hug and concluded, “Off you go. I can see the two of you have a lot in front of you. See you in the morning.” And he left the room.

  Valerie and Edward went to the guesthouse, wrapped in excitement and fear.

  Chapter 57

  As they came back together, as the fog of betrayal opened the heart of the girl he had always loved, he saw her depth. Rather, he saw the depths to which he had subjected her. He had been wrong; walking out so easily on the girl he had forever promised to marry, he had driven her to a place of humiliation.

  In fact that first night when they reunited in love, he was about to learn just how deep the humiliation was.

  As they were about to enter the two-story colonial guesthouse, Edward stopped, picked Valerie up in his arms, and carried her across the threshold.

  “This is late coming, but we will do this the right way, soon,” Edward told a tearful Valerie.

  “Are you serious?” Val asked, shocked.

  “Never more in my life, if you’ll have me,” Eddie said, realizing the second chance that was playing out on this day.

  “There are a few things I need your help with, so after you show me around, I want to sit down and talk.”

  The guesthouse was quaint, just enough to accommodate a family. It had three bedrooms, three baths, and a great room overlooking the pool. The house had been updated several years earlier and had a comfortable feel to it, like it had been lived in. Edward had kept it up and frequently stayed there whenever he was in Greenwich. A few days earlier, upon return from Puerto Rico, he slipped easily into a new life that he could not have imagined would change again a week later. They chose the larger bedroom to put Valerie’s overnight bag in; it had a king sized bed. Valerie jumped on it and Edward followed and they made love again, more slowly than before, but more passionately.

  Later, Edward poured both Val and himself a glass of white wine, and they sat on the back patio, beside the pool in the quiet, warm night.

  “I need to tell you something right now before we do anything else,” Val said. “I’m very afraid of what you will think of me, but I need you to know something right now.”

  “What great secret must I know; is this the big idea you’ve wanted to tell me all day?”

  “No, Eddie, it’s…” and Valerie started to cry.

  “Val, what is it, are you ok?”

  “I hope so, Eddie, I’m scared, for the first time in my life. I just have you back, and I don’t want to lose you,” Valerie said, looking at Edward with pleading in her eyes.

  Edward laughed, “You’re going to lose me if you don’t tell me this great secret. There is nothing you can say that will change how I feel about you.”

  “I hope so. Well, you know I need to tell David about us.”

  “Yes. But that’s not it, right?”

  “No, you know I told you I married David on the rebound from you. That I was so hurt and he chased me.”

  “Yes, I know that.”

  “Well, there was a reason I got married. I was pregnant, Eddie.”

  “You mean there was someone else between the time you left me and when you married David.”

  “No, Eddie, there was no one else,” she paused here, unsure of how he would take what she was about to say. “After you left me, I found out I was pregnant. My baby boy is our son.”

  Edward Wheelwright sat straight up; he put his glass down on the table. He rose and stood beside Valerie’s chair. He stood for a moment thinking about what he had just heard. He looked down at Valerie. She had fear in her eyes.

  He knelt down beside her. “Val, it’s true?”

  “Yes, Eddie, it is. His name is Edward.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” Wheelwright said as he put an arm around Valerie, and there was a silence, then he asked, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “What would I have said? I tried thinking of words a thousand times. I actually came to believe that you would never know. Not that I didn’t want you to know, I never knew how I would tell you. I never knew what would happen if I did. “

  “Didn’t you think I would care for my son?” Wheelwright asked quietly.

  “Of course I knew you would, but you made a decision to leave. I didn’t think you would want to be bothered by me or the baby. I didn’t want to tie you down if that wasn’t what you wanted.”

  “Oh, Val, It’s alright. I’m so sorry. And I’m so glad.”

  “You are?” Valerie said, in a way, both relieved and startled.

  “Yes, I love you. I made terrible mistakes that hurt our lives. Having a son, our son, as we come back together is wonderful. When can I see him?”

  Valerie was overjoyed. She put her hands on either side of Eddie’s face, caressed it and cried.

  Chapter 58

  The bottle was opened early. The first drink poured by 9 a.m. Mark Wheelwright was looking out his study window, looking towards the sea, when he caught a glimpse of people coming through his rear yard from the right. There was a man, a woman, and a sm
all boy in the middle, walking, holding his parents hands. It was a dream, an illusion: Mark, his departed wife, and his son Edward. He looked at the glass of whiskey, shivered from his late night of drinking the prior evening.

  As he stared at his glass, he thought about the idea of his son and Valerie moving into the guesthouse. He wasn’t sure he liked the idea with her still married.

  Wheelwright looked up from the glass, and there was the young family again, only this time they were outside of his window, not ten feet away looking in at him. He looked closer. It was his son, Edward, but not as the child, as the man, and Valerie and what must be her little boy. They smiled in at him, waved, and walked to the back door. Wheelwright moved to the kitchen, drink in hand, and dumped it out in the sink just as they opened the kitchen door.

  “Hi, Dad,” Edward said.

  “Hi, Mr. W,” Valerie added.

  They all looked down at the little boy, all of two-years-old, walking steadily, and the boy looked up at Mark Wheelwright and said, “Papa.”

  Valerie and Edward laughed as Valerie bent down to him.

  Mark Wheelwright was hung over. He didn’t like the joke.

  “Dad, he’s your grandson,” the younger Wheelwright said.

  “That’s nice of you two, but he’s not my grandson,” said the older man in a sharp tone with the emphasis on “my.”

  “Can we go in the family room and talk?” Edward said to his father.

  “Sure,” Mark said, a little upset with the way this day was starting out. He didn’t like the idea of a married woman living in his guesthouse. He liked it even less if they were going to try to pass the baby off in some charade as Edward’s and that he was the grandfather. Has the persecution of an old man no end, he thought, the image of a bottle looming on the horizon of his mind.

  When they were seated in the family room, the little boy sat on the floor holding a fluffy toy rabbit.