What I Did for Love

by Tessa Dane

  “I’m still waiting,” he would say occasionally, although I had in fact used his piano several times when he was traveling. When he was home I preferred listening to him, gifted jazz man that he was. I favored the classics, but Bredon would improvise a jazz line woven around lines from Chopin, just as my teacher used to do. My piano teacher had also taught my brother many years before, and he was an old man when I took lessons from him. His Juilliard training shone through in his command of theory and his beautiful ways of explaining it. I loved learning the many devices a skilled pianist could use, as well as the classical and text-perfect ways of playing the music on the page. But I learned a few standard songs just to hear our parents sing. They had loved music and had sweet, graceful voices. When they sang together it was like love in musical form. They always held hands and sat so close together, each pressed against the other. It was so beautiful, it would leave me in wonder. Such love. Amazing to behold.

  Bredon sent me to the Steinway store to pick a piano that suited, and I also had to get some things for the apartment on my own. I haunted the antiques galleries, alone and with my friend Robin, to find the exactly perfect desk that now sat in the niche facing the gorgeous park view. The arc of the desk matched the curve of the wall, its ancient cherry patina and clever drawers inviting to the student and the writer. A comfortable chair, low bookshelves at either end of the niche, cushions for the window seats, and I had my perfect little study. Its open arched doorway adjoined my bedroom which held a queen-size bed for my restless sleep. A huge closet built into one wall held the drawers and shelves that made extra furniture unnecessary.

  There was another advantage in the elegant old buildings Bredon had selected for the search: the apartments had back entrances. Years ago, and sometimes even now, these were service entrances leading to freight elevators, back stairways, incinerators, places to store mops and pails. These back doors dated from the old days of live-in servants, when only they would deal with cleaning, laundry, and trash. But those back doors served also as an escape route that Bredon wanted me to have. He had paid for the same advantages in his building. Our parents’ death and the publicity aftermath had left us feral, like wild creatures who make sure that their lairs always have a way out if an intruder managed to get inside. We were known, yet we avoided being photographed when at all possible. Even the gentler editors from some of the magazine and websites, who requested interviews with great delicacy and tact, were sweetly thanked by Bredon’s assistant, who firmly closed the conversation with, “Perhaps at some future date. We will let you know.” That future date, as far as we were concerned, would be never.

  Right after the semester ended I moved permanently from my dorm suite and the guest bedroom in Bredon’s apartment, to what was now my own home. Bredon had offered me the choice to remain with him, but I wanted the quiet and solace of a space where I could re-make my place in the world. He gave me his reluctant, loving, sad agreement, and my move was done. We were anyway both uptown, near enough to reach each other quickly.

  Wealth made it all so possible. My brother did love being rich, and of course the temptation was always there to grow even richer if opportunity permitted. This was the New York financial scene, beautiful offices in gleaming mirrored buildings, elegant facades covering the clawing and scheming over money and its global reach. Money was the center of it all, and the dreadful reason for those first tense words with my brother. On that day, as so often happens, one step, one decision, one “yes” or one “no,” and the rest of one’s life is never the same.

  III

  That Monday I had to go to Bredon’s office at two o’clock to sign a tax form. He had told me that his receptionist and guard-dog assistant, Mrs. Andrews (we never called her by her first name), would be out that day, so the reception area was empty as I arrived. Bredon and I were high profile in this building, so I had known to dress in chic Manhattan fashion. Forgoing my college “uniform” of jeans and sweatshirts, I wore a fashionably swaying skirt and layered top, a very-latest type of light jacket over my arm, a relatively small handbag, exclusive and chic. I hated handbags and loved pockets, to the dismay of “fashionistas,” and never got the point of the handbag obsession. I kept clutching the strap lest I forget it.

  All these expensive clothes were gifts from Bredon, thanks to a Bergdorf personal shopper and a designer whose style he liked. But I refused to wear the outrageous five inch high heels that were in fashion. They looked like torture. Why not bind our feet like in old China, and have women hobbling about until their revolution freed them? Despite the protests that many women walked in them easily, and Bredon’s offer to have the shoes handmade so that they would be comfortable, I settled on a moderate heel and sheer hose. My long hair, a kind of gold brown with subtle blonde streaks, was the work of an inspired woman in a quiet east side salon. I had pulled it into a velvet tie at the nape of my neck, not swinging glamorously, but obviously a “coiffure,” and not a basic hairstyle. I did not look like an office worker, nor like a college girl, but like a young woman whose time was her own. I had sprayed and dabbed on perfumes, and misted some cologne on my clothes. It produced a sensation of roses. I could catch the fragrance only occasionally because the sense of smell tires so easily. My brother, though, would grin with approval. His tiny, gentlemanly sniff of appreciation delighted me.

  Rose perfume was special. “Mother would have loved this scent on you,” Bredon once – only once – told me. The fragrance brought back the incomparable perfume of the roses we had loved in India, where we had traveled as a family for my thirteenth birthday. Thus today, as on so many other days, the dress and scent were for Bredon, to reassure him that I was all right, that I had survived the tragedy that had stunned us into catatonic disbelief when we had first heard the news.

  I was about to walk straight into his office but heard male voices. Bredon and another man were just coming out. Each of them possessed a strong presence like an aura, but I felt a jolt as I looked at Bredon’s visitor. I was used to the power that my brother seemed to exude, the excitement women told me they felt when they saw him. Because I was impervious to his attractiveness, I used to be amused that his effect was so compelling. Obviously my parents had instilled the incest taboo quite strongly in us. Added to that was our age difference and, with our parents’ urging, Bredon’s parental sense of responsibility for my safety and my fate. Other women saw that too, not only at my college. At parties and gatherings many a woman had tried to become friends with me in the hope that Bredon would pay more attention to her as a result of her connection to me.

  So I knew about attraction and power, but now I felt it for myself, that air-shimmering effect this man was having on me, that I had seen in other women’s reaction to Bredon. The sensation startled me. I wondered if I looked as amazed as I felt as his magnetism pulled me. It was like a romance novel or a fairy tale, the bolt out of the blue, desire, love, lust, whatever. He caught me with his virility, his presence producing a tiny shock of electrical current that touched me everywhere.

  He had the well-tailored look of the super financier he undoubtedly was, slender enough, some substance to him. He looked assured and powerful, but best of all he was handsome without being pretty, his dark blond hair perfect for his regular, serious features. I was startled by his effect on me because I had never before just looked at a man and wanted his attention or his touch. But here I was, smitten.

  He must have felt something similar, or seen what must have been a blush. Certainly my face felt warm. So did my body. He stopped abruptly and looked at me, and Bredon almost ran into him. He seemed to look disbelieving of his own reaction, which thrilled me. Holy cow, I thought, loving that expression even in my mind, holy cow, what just happened? Was it only lust? I was feeling flutters in my stomach and between my legs, lust yes, and desire, its newness and magnitude thrilling me.

  My brother, who had just avoided colliding with him, could see the way we were looking at each other, no words sufficient to desc
ribe the obvious attraction between us.

  “My sister, Dray,” Bredon told the man quietly.

  “Oh.” He was almost flustered, and then, catching himself he said, “I’m Grenville Rand, but everyone just calls me Rand.” He grinned, and I recognized the boy he must have been, and understood the decision to avoid the “Grenville.” I had been christened Andrea Elizabeth Drayman Cooper. Bredon had called me “Dray” affectionately, when I was a baby, and the name had stuck.

  Rand repeated my name, not looking at my brother, only looking at me. Then, as though mentally shaking himself, he began the standard “I’m happy to meet you” phrases, which I mechanically echoed. We were beguiled into silence, just looking at each other, each seeming to feel amazement at the other’s existence.

  My brother continued to stand quietly beside me, and Rand realized that Bredon was waiting for him to leave. With a lingering look, a soft “Well, good-bye,” and a nod to my brother, he went to the waiting elevator. I stole a last look at him as he turned to face the closing doors, and he looked directly back at me in that moment. I was surprised that my usually observant and protective brother made no comment. Evidently Bredon had much on his mind, and my amazement over Rand left me distracted as well. This was a true first for us. Generally, Bredon and I had each other’s immediate, complete attention when we were together.

  In Bredon’s office, after our customary quick hug and a peck on the cheek, we settled into the big armchairs, looking over the city through windows that ran floor to ceiling. I was still thinking of Rand, half in a daydream as I gazed at the familiar scene, listening as my brother started to brief me about his new financial venture. It would be the most exciting deal he had ever put together, and the greatest financial risk of his career.

  He had begun in a normal conversational voice, but something he said triggered a buzz of danger and wariness in my unconscious. Thoughts of Rand disappeared as Bredon set out the details of his latest venture. All the years of hearing about the financial world, and all my studies, came together to make me shake my head. I did not like the deal, nor the world regions it involved, nor the overseas partners. It involved enormous investments in countries notorious for their corruption and political instability. The capital partners were mostly men of publicly questionable ethics. The whole project would be dangerous and risky under any circumstances, and conditions now were even less stable. Many observers saw threats of state collapse, coup, revolution, anarchy in the regions that would be part of Bredon’s project. I had just finished two semesters of economics that were filled with cautionary tales about many of these regions.

  Bredon knew all that I knew, yet he had gone ahead. He was going to deal with men of duplicity and self-interest, feeding government corruption, shattering many hopes among their countries’ poor. Each day brought more news of unrest, terrorism, religious and secular upheavals. They affected market performances throughout the world, prices fluctuating in roller-coaster rides, way high up, way down, as investors evaluated each new world development.

  No wonder, as Bredon described the investment plan, I was feeling an edgy agitation, alarms stirring in me, and my need to warn my brother. My father always encouraged me to trust my instincts, believing ‘instincts’ are things we already know within ourselves. Those instincts were now telling me frantically to ask Bredon to pull out of this deal. The profits would be enormous, yes, if it succeeded, but the deal itself was risky beyond anything he had ever tried.

  Saying a little prayer to our father’s spirit to invoke guidance, I tried to open the conversation gently. “I don’t really like this project, Bredon,” I said in a low voice, without urgency, praying he would hear my love and care. My words stopped my brother short, surprise in his questioning look. In the past, I might ask questions, but I never questioned his judgment or genius in matters of money. I tried to elaborate. “The principals in the deal….” I began, but Bredon cut me off, his face stern, almost cold.

  “You seem to like Rand, and Rand is one of the principals. He had his doubts too, but he’ll come around.”

  “Really? Rand is in it?” I was surprised, and only a bit relieved. “What doubts does he have?”

  Bredon shook his head. “Natural caution. But Rand has a major option. He’s almost as heavily committed as I am, but we need a tremendous amount more. We need heavy-investment partners in each country we’re dealing with.”

  I felt chilled as my brother spoke, and feared for him. He had to see my face, my “don’t do it” face as he called it. This time he was not moved by it, or perhaps it angered him because there was already so much uncertainty in this hugely risky investment. He spoke in a calm but coolly determined voice. “Yes, the other investors are an iffy bunch. But with Rand in the picture, there will be two of us to keep it on course.”

  I still looked doubtful and Bredon tried another tack. “I know it’s huge, a major gamble, and it scares a lot of people. But if we pull it off, the profit will be fantastic.”

  “It’s an enormous gamble, Bredon…” I started to say, but he cut me off.

  “I’ve gambled before,” he reminded me.

  “Yes. And won. But a gamble is only wonderful if it succeeds.” I kept the tone of my voice quiet until then, but my fears for my brother were only growing by the minute. Praying I would sound like my father, I said, “Why not let this one pass?” And then I took a chance and said it: “It almost seems reckless.”

  “Reckless.” Bredon repeated my word without inflection, flat, and with a look of disbelief on his face. Was there also anger? Over this? I had the horrible feeling that engulfs a person when a situation is dangerous to someone you love, but that person will not believe you. There is no persuading them of how likely and how terrible the consequences would be.

  “The deal feels too dangerous,” I said, keeping my voice calm.

  “I’ve done my homework, Dray,” he said in a quiet, remonstrating tone. “You don’t trust my judgment?”

  “I don’t trust the others!” I exclaimed. I was feeling a panic for him that I had never felt before, and he could hear it. I wished he would understand that he was the only person, and no other, and no thing, that could make me feel this way. After my parents, all my sense of danger centered only on Bredon’s well-being. It wasn’t just Bredon protecting me. That was what the world saw. I felt a loyalty and desire to keep him from harm, beyond anything I could describe even to myself.

  “Bredon,” I tried again, “these are not ethical people; they aren’t trustworthy. And the political scene is messy, dangerous…”

  He cut me off. “I know they’re not ethical. That’s what contracts are for. If we all ‘trusted’ each other so much, we could just give our word, and that would be that.” My brother shifted impatiently in his chair. “Of course they’re out for their own good. But they control access to important permits and contracts. There’s no other way than to deal with them.”

  I was about to answer him but he held up his hand to stop me. “This is business, not friendship, Dray. I’ve done this kind of deal before.”

  My brother’s voice was so cold, I knew I had lost the argument. He was going ahead with a gamble that could break him, and I knew my brother. If he lost his hold on his financial world, if his losses destroyed his wealth, I was not sure he could endure it. That’s what frightened me most of all. Would he feel such shame and humiliation that he would harm himself? Other men had taken their own lives when they were financially ruined. I was terrified at the thought of anything that could take my brother from me.

  Bredon seemed to realize the depth of my anxiety, and I began to realize that he could not accept my objections because he probably already committed beyond his ability to get out, even if he wanted to. I could hardly breathe.

  “Why not try to get out however you can,” I urged, uselessly.

  “Of course I could get out,” he said, “but I’ve created this deal, and I’m staying in.” He pretended an air of dismissive amusement, patti
ng my hand. I sensed it was a lie, and maybe he was lying to himself. Another first. My sense of menace was so strong, I was so afraid for him, it was all I could do to keep from crying and begging. At this point, though, it was futile and would only add misery to whatever uneasiness he felt. So I tried to compose myself as he took my hand, leaning toward me, his face now loving, all severity gone. And the truth finally there.

  “Please, Dray,” he said gently, “stop worrying. I’m committed to this. I was just filling you in on the details. No more arguments, please.” I knew that tone of voice, all objections done. “And sign the tax form.”

  He pushed the paper toward me, looking both distracted by his monster deal, and moved by concern for me. He put his hand on my arm, then gave me a full hug. I loved him so much, and ached because if he lost this gamble, if financial devastation were added to all the loss we had experienced, he would be undone. The damage might be irreparable.

  “Please don’t worry,” he repeated. “And I wish I had more time for you this afternoon, but I have another investor coming in about a half hour.” He rose, my sign to rise as well. He tried to assuage my upset and worry, giving me several small kisses on the cheek, trying to change my expression. I finally managed to smile, and gave him another peck on the cheek. It was eerie, how unsettled I felt, how afraid for him. Seeing my worried face, Bredon pressed my arm, hugged me, and gave me a last quick peck on the cheek as the elevator doors opened for me.

  “I love you, Baby Sister,” he said, and smiled. I melted. I loved him with all the added love I could no longer show our parents. So I gave him a quick hug and another quick peck on the cheek as I stepped into the elevator. Be strong, I told myself. I tried to smile at him all the way to the lobby by smiling upward at the camera hidden behind the elevator’s two-way mirror. Each of the suites on these floors had its own mirrored elevator, with invisible as well as visible security cameras. My brother could monitor my progress by looking at a small computer screen at one corner of his desk. I hoped he saw me smiling at him.