loftily, “I cannot help you if you refuse to listen. I am trying to tell you something very important. All of this”—she gestured at the shreds of Sandra—“means nothing. You haven't tried yet. Trying means putting your heart into the attempt. You have not been brave enough to try
at all,
and so you have no basis whatsoever for judging yourself a failure.”
Molly scowled at her. If Carter's sister thought that it didn't take effort and bravery to put on the Sandra outfit and face the world, then she could go to hell. “I did my best,” she said coldly. “When Carter comes back, tell him that I'll give his plan one more chance. One. That's all. And if tomorrow turns out to be another disaster, then I officially quit.”
CHAPTER 7
J ake knelt to clamp the mast onto his windsurfing board. It was quarter to ten in the morning, and he had spent the past hour on the phone, having a heated “discussion” with the two most senior Berenger Corporation board members: Walter Cronin and Stanley “Skip” Leavenworth, both stuffy white-haired fogies, one the retired CEO of a major development corporation, the other a retired CFO of a major bank. Walter had called in a huff, with Skip conferenced in, to read Jake selected passages from that morning's
Wall Street Journal,
which had featured an article headlined, “Wall Street Questions Value of Berenger Bonds.” In it, a prominent analyst was quoted as saying, “Berenger Corporation has borrowed a great deal of money by issuing corporate bonds over the past few years, but Jake Berenger seems more interested in playing with Hollywood blondes than in paying interest on his bonds.”
“Jake,” Walter had said officiously, “you do understand what this means…?”
“That it was a slow news day?” Jake asked. He took exception to Walter's tone. He was not a misbehaving trust-fund grandson, and did not appreciate being lectured like one.
“This is becoming a serious image problem, Jake,” Walter said. “We can't afford to lose more investor confidence. We'll be discussing this at the next board meeting.”
He let the mast fall to the sand, straightened up, and ran a hand over his forehead, exhaling hard. Walter's pompous tone still echoed in his ears.
A serious image problem, Jake.
Yeah,
Jake thought.
No kidding, Walter. Thanks.
Apparently, he had misjudged the severity of the situation. Cora had been right to worry.
Always listen to your mother,
he thought.
Wear a warm sweater, eat your vegetables, and don't underestimate the subversive power of the fucking tabloid press.
Titillating articles in the
Daily News
were one thing, but when the sniping reached the level of the
Wall Street Journal,
it meant that his bad press was going mainstream.
The glare from the sand was making his head ache, and he realized that he had left his sunglasses at the villa. He had bolted out of there after the phone call, trying to avoid Amanda, who had been pointedly and repeatedly mentioning her intense desire to learn to scuba dive. He dragged his board higher on the sand, getting it away from the surf. There were usually a couple of extra pairs of glasses in the boathouse, and he could borrow one from Rico for the next hour.
“Where did you find a pink wet suit?” Molly asked Carter. Her cheeks were burning, and she was glad for Elaine's silver sunglasses, because they allowed her to pretend not to see the stunned stares that followed her as they walked across the pool terrace and down the wide steps toward the beach. One man actually dropped his newspaper as she passed his chair. His wife, in the next chair, picked it up and whacked him with it.
“I know a girl who works for Mary Kay,” Carter said. “They gave them away as prizes last year. She said that I could have hers. She's more of a dry-land kind of person.”
“So am I,” Molly said. “How am I supposed to take a windsurfing lesson dressed like this? The wig? The shoes? The chest? What if my stuffing comes
at all,
and so you have no basis whatsoever for judging yourself a failure.”
Molly scowled at her. If Carter's sister thought that it didn't take effort and bravery to put on the Sandra outfit and face the world, then she could go to hell. “I did my best,” she said coldly. “When Carter comes back, tell him that I'll give his plan one more chance. One. That's all. And if tomorrow turns out to be another disaster, then I officially quit.”
CHAPTER 7
J ake knelt to clamp the mast onto his windsurfing board. It was quarter to ten in the morning, and he had spent the past hour on the phone, having a heated “discussion” with the two most senior Berenger Corporation board members: Walter Cronin and Stanley “Skip” Leavenworth, both stuffy white-haired fogies, one the retired CEO of a major development corporation, the other a retired CFO of a major bank. Walter had called in a huff, with Skip conferenced in, to read Jake selected passages from that morning's
Wall Street Journal,
which had featured an article headlined, “Wall Street Questions Value of Berenger Bonds.” In it, a prominent analyst was quoted as saying, “Berenger Corporation has borrowed a great deal of money by issuing corporate bonds over the past few years, but Jake Berenger seems more interested in playing with Hollywood blondes than in paying interest on his bonds.”
“Jake,” Walter had said officiously, “you do understand what this means…?”
“That it was a slow news day?” Jake asked. He took exception to Walter's tone. He was not a misbehaving trust-fund grandson, and did not appreciate being lectured like one.
“This is becoming a serious image problem, Jake,” Walter said. “We can't afford to lose more investor confidence. We'll be discussing this at the next board meeting.”
He let the mast fall to the sand, straightened up, and ran a hand over his forehead, exhaling hard. Walter's pompous tone still echoed in his ears.
A serious image problem, Jake.
Yeah,
Jake thought.
No kidding, Walter. Thanks.
Apparently, he had misjudged the severity of the situation. Cora had been right to worry.
Always listen to your mother,
he thought.
Wear a warm sweater, eat your vegetables, and don't underestimate the subversive power of the fucking tabloid press.
Titillating articles in the
Daily News
were one thing, but when the sniping reached the level of the
Wall Street Journal,
it meant that his bad press was going mainstream.
The glare from the sand was making his head ache, and he realized that he had left his sunglasses at the villa. He had bolted out of there after the phone call, trying to avoid Amanda, who had been pointedly and repeatedly mentioning her intense desire to learn to scuba dive. He dragged his board higher on the sand, getting it away from the surf. There were usually a couple of extra pairs of glasses in the boathouse, and he could borrow one from Rico for the next hour.
“Where did you find a pink wet suit?” Molly asked Carter. Her cheeks were burning, and she was glad for Elaine's silver sunglasses, because they allowed her to pretend not to see the stunned stares that followed her as they walked across the pool terrace and down the wide steps toward the beach. One man actually dropped his newspaper as she passed his chair. His wife, in the next chair, picked it up and whacked him with it.
“I know a girl who works for Mary Kay,” Carter said. “They gave them away as prizes last year. She said that I could have hers. She's more of a dry-land kind of person.”
“So am I,” Molly said. “How am I supposed to take a windsurfing lesson dressed like this? The wig? The shoes? The chest? What if my stuffing comes
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