The Family Fortune by Laurie Horowitz

wasn’t there. He had an early class. I took a sip of my coffee and picked up the phone. This was my favorite part of running the foundation. I loved calling people with good news. I dialed the number on the last page of the story only to receive the message that the number had been disconnected. No forwarding number was given. I held the phone to my ear and listened to the electronic message over and over again.
    I knew I was more disappointed than I should have been. It was only a story, but I couldn’t lose Jack Reilly, not after he’d entered my fantasy life, which at the time was none too rich. The rational thing to do would have been to go to the next story, but I wasn’t interested in the next best.
    Maybe this time, with the discovery of Jack, I’d even let myself be interviewed. The two of us would be interviewed together from the house where he would be working, the house with a view of the ocean and the bay. Maybe Max Wellman would be flipping through Poets & Writers and read about us. Even though I hadn’t seen Max in years, I’m ashamed to say that sometimes I compared my life with his. And when I did, it left me feeling even more stunted than usual.
    I had to find Jack Reilly. Maybe he was my second chance. For all I knew, he was twenty years old, gay, or married. Still, when my imagination took hold of something, it wasn’t likely to let go until the fantasy had played itself out.
    Tad came in while I was still staring at the phone.
    â€œJane?”
    â€œHis phone’s been disconnected,” I said.
    â€œWhose?”
    â€œJack Reilly’s.”
    â€œOn to the next.”
    â€œI don’t want the next person. I want Jack Reilly.”
    â€œJane, you look feverish.”
    â€œI’m going to find him. You want to come?”
    â€œCool—an adventure.” He grabbed his jacket.
    My car was garaged at a place on Beacon Hill, about three blocks from our house. I didn’t use the car often. There wasn’t much need for it in Boston and parking was always a problem. Our house didn’t have much garage space. When it was built, cars weren’t an issue.
    I took the story and put it in my bag. I was now seeing everything through the eyes of Jack Reilly, a man I didn’t even know. The bag looked dingy.
    â€œI’m going to have to change my clothes,” I said. I was wearing one ofmy usual outfits, black wool pants, a gray turtleneck, and black sneakers. It wasn’t that I had no fashion sense exactly, it was just that I didn’t care.
    I remembered once going into the old Ritz with Priscilla before it was renovated. We had tea and I noticed that the arms of the chairs in the lounge were worn. The furniture was good and expensive, but shabby.
    â€œOld Bostonians like that,” Priscilla had said. “It makes them feel comfortable. The Ritz has a tattered grace.”
    I was like the old Ritz. I had a tattered grace. I was indifferent to what was modern and fashionable. I liked fine things, but I was happy to keep them until they crumbled in my hands.
    â€œWe can shop on the way,” Tad said.
    â€œI can go home and take something out of my closet.”
    â€œNo you can’t,” he said. “Let’s shop on the way. We’ll take a cab to Newbury Street and walk from there.”
    â€œYou don’t think I have anything appropriate?”
    â€œJane, I’ve known you for six months and I’ve never seen you wear something that would be appropriate for anything other than a funeral.”
    What I was wearing was not appropriate for a funeral. I’d never wear trousers to a funeral. I was embarrassed to think that I was so somberly and carelessly dressed that a young man would notice it. Still, I figured he was doing me a favor. We stopped at Alan Bilzerian’s, a boutique on Newbury Street, where I picked up a forest green suit with a crisp white shirt. In the back of the store there was an