online, we figured that flat-fee accounts were really the way to go for our more sophisticated investors. So far, it’s been a big success; revenues for last quarter were up ten percent, and I’ve been given the budget to add a new broker to my team.” He paused for a moment for his father’s reaction, but none came. “You know, Dad, you and Mom are pretty active investors, and you do most of your own research. One of our flat-fee products might be best for you.”
“What was that?” asked Gunnar.
“I was saying that you might want to switch over to one of our flat-fee accounts.”
“Why would we do that?”
Tom was about to repeat his explanation when Anne cut in. “Why don’t you send us the paperwork. We can look it over and set up a time to meet with you next week.”
“Uh, no problem. You’ll have it by Monday afternoon.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, during which time Markus and Tom both surreptitiously checked their watches. It was 7:25. Anne broke the silence. “Markus, how is your production coming?”
Markus had been eyeing the wine bottle and wondering whether his father would comment if he had a third glass. “Fine, just fine. We’re beginning rehearsals for The Gamester . It’s an eighteenth-century play written by Edward Moore. I’m going to be understudy to Jim Kennison, who’s playing—”
Gunnar looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got some things I need to take care of this evening. Thanks for coming. Have a great week.” He stood, shook hands with his bewildered sons, and strode from the room.
“Couldn’t take even two minutes of theater talk, huh?” Markus muttered as he refilled his wineglass.
Gunnar disappeared into his den. “It’s not the theater,” replied Anne. “Dad has been preoccupied lately. He spends a lot of time on the phone and the computer.”
“I would too if I’d been sued,” said Tom. “I’d want to know everything about the legal issues and the judge and . . . well, and about anything else having to do with the lawsuit.”
“But you wouldn’t get up in the middle of dinner to go do research,” observed Markus. “Especially if someone was talking.”
“Dad has some rough edges,” Tom conceded, “but I can understand why he’s distracted. After all, he’s being sued by Uncle Karl.”
Anne smiled and turned the conversation back to more comfortable territory. “Markus, you never finished telling us about your new play.”
Half an hour later, Markus and Tom sat in Tom’s Mercedes, driving back into Chicago. Night gathered in front of them, and the last rays of the vanishing sun lit planes flying into and out of O’Hare like gleaming fireflies. Markus sprawled on the passenger’s seat, watching the sky absently as Tom drove and the two of them talked about the Cubs.
Suddenly, Markus asked, “Do you remember when the company almost went bankrupt when we were in high school?”
“Vaguely,” replied Tom. “What I really remember was that Mom took me shopping for a new Lexus for my sixteenth birthday. Then, a week later, she told me in sort of an offhand way that I wouldn’t be getting a car that year—but she wouldn’t explain why. No one told me about what was going on. I just heard you guys talking about it, like a year later.”
“ Nobody heard about it when it happened,” replied Markus. “Not even Mom. Dad didn’t say anything; he was just really moody and distracted for about half a year and wouldn’t let her spend any money. Then he was back to normal. And then, about a year after that, he started talking about the whole thing like everybody had known about it all along.”
Tom looked at his older brother. “He didn’t tell Mom?”
Markus shook his head. “He never tells her when something is seriously wrong. He never tells anyone. He just clams up and deals with it on his own.”
They drove in silence for a while, and Markus leaned against his window and started to breathe
“What was that?” asked Gunnar.
“I was saying that you might want to switch over to one of our flat-fee accounts.”
“Why would we do that?”
Tom was about to repeat his explanation when Anne cut in. “Why don’t you send us the paperwork. We can look it over and set up a time to meet with you next week.”
“Uh, no problem. You’ll have it by Monday afternoon.”
They ate in silence for several minutes, during which time Markus and Tom both surreptitiously checked their watches. It was 7:25. Anne broke the silence. “Markus, how is your production coming?”
Markus had been eyeing the wine bottle and wondering whether his father would comment if he had a third glass. “Fine, just fine. We’re beginning rehearsals for The Gamester . It’s an eighteenth-century play written by Edward Moore. I’m going to be understudy to Jim Kennison, who’s playing—”
Gunnar looked at his watch. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got some things I need to take care of this evening. Thanks for coming. Have a great week.” He stood, shook hands with his bewildered sons, and strode from the room.
“Couldn’t take even two minutes of theater talk, huh?” Markus muttered as he refilled his wineglass.
Gunnar disappeared into his den. “It’s not the theater,” replied Anne. “Dad has been preoccupied lately. He spends a lot of time on the phone and the computer.”
“I would too if I’d been sued,” said Tom. “I’d want to know everything about the legal issues and the judge and . . . well, and about anything else having to do with the lawsuit.”
“But you wouldn’t get up in the middle of dinner to go do research,” observed Markus. “Especially if someone was talking.”
“Dad has some rough edges,” Tom conceded, “but I can understand why he’s distracted. After all, he’s being sued by Uncle Karl.”
Anne smiled and turned the conversation back to more comfortable territory. “Markus, you never finished telling us about your new play.”
Half an hour later, Markus and Tom sat in Tom’s Mercedes, driving back into Chicago. Night gathered in front of them, and the last rays of the vanishing sun lit planes flying into and out of O’Hare like gleaming fireflies. Markus sprawled on the passenger’s seat, watching the sky absently as Tom drove and the two of them talked about the Cubs.
Suddenly, Markus asked, “Do you remember when the company almost went bankrupt when we were in high school?”
“Vaguely,” replied Tom. “What I really remember was that Mom took me shopping for a new Lexus for my sixteenth birthday. Then, a week later, she told me in sort of an offhand way that I wouldn’t be getting a car that year—but she wouldn’t explain why. No one told me about what was going on. I just heard you guys talking about it, like a year later.”
“ Nobody heard about it when it happened,” replied Markus. “Not even Mom. Dad didn’t say anything; he was just really moody and distracted for about half a year and wouldn’t let her spend any money. Then he was back to normal. And then, about a year after that, he started talking about the whole thing like everybody had known about it all along.”
Tom looked at his older brother. “He didn’t tell Mom?”
Markus shook his head. “He never tells her when something is seriously wrong. He never tells anyone. He just clams up and deals with it on his own.”
They drove in silence for a while, and Markus leaned against his window and started to breathe
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