Fitzer stock? Give it to me straight, Cece, what the fuck is happening?”
Like everyone else who had called, Bette had read
The Wall Street Journal
and
The New York Times
, both of which had run articles suggesting that, in the aftermath of the Utah mining disaster, unknown suitors were planning to make a strong takeover bid for Fitzer, and Montaro’s position was in jeopardy.
“It’s been jumping off the hook all afternoon, the private line and my cell too,” Cecilia said, indicating the phone that had momentarily fallen silent. Montaro responded with a detached nod.
“I hope this won’t get in the way of any of our summer plans,” said Cecilia. “We can’t miss P.L.’s birthday. And we’ve already paid for the rental of the beach house in Southampton for August.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to undo anything. At least not yet,” Caine said. His thoughts had shifted from Priscilla to the business with Herman Freich, Colette Beekman, and the reappearance of the coin from his past. He hadn’t yet told Cecilia about all that he had discussed with Freich and Beekman and the memories that discussion had conjured up. Cecilia was a woman of strong emotions, much like his mother; he worried that she would get unrealistically hopeful if he told her about the coin, then disappointed if things didn’t work out.
“Fine,” said Cecilia. “But whatever happens, P.L.’s birthday is a must. We have to be there.”
“Of course,” Montaro said. Philip L. Caine, Montaro’s childhood protector, would turn ninety-nine this year, and Montaro knew what his grandfather’s loss would mean to his wife as well as to him. Death had come often to Cecilia in her forty-four years. Her father, mother, older brother, her mother’s sister, Dolly, and Dolly’s husband, Jake—Cecilia had no one left from the family she was born into. When she was decorating her husband’s office, she had hung the portraits of her mother and Dolly on his walls, two raven-haired women who closelyresembled Cecilia, as if to remind her husband that he could take nothing for granted. It was no secret to Montaro that his wife’s huge appetite for life was born out of her fear of death. And he understood, too, that this was part of the reason she clung so protectively to Priscilla and those remaining few on his side of the family—she had not learned the art of letting go, a talent he had perfected when he was just a boy.
“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll go,” he told his wife. He put his arms around her and drew her near.
Once again, the phone exploded in the quiet kitchen. And once again, both Montaro and Cecilia glanced at it, then looked away. A few seconds later, a door slammed shut upstairs. Assuming Priscilla and Whitcombe were on their way, Cecilia kissed her husband, then moved to the stove to ready her daughter’s warm milk.
Gordon Whitcombe entered the room alone and sat across the table from Montaro.
“Isn’t Prissy coming?” Cecilia asked accusingly.
“No, she’s not.”
“Why not?”
“She said she doesn’t feel like it.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, Cecilia.” The phones droned on. Though Whitcombe didn’t say much, his weary appearance indicated that he and Priscilla had had a difficult exchange.
“She’s all right,” Whitcombe said quickly. “Just hold your horses, Cecilia.” Turning to Montaro, he continued. “She’s a lot like you; she’s tough, that kid—mind of her own. I still don’t have it all clear, but what I do have is not good. In fact, it’s a hell of a lot rougher than either of you probably think.”
Cecilia turned away from the two men, pretending to concentrate on the stove.
“Get to it,” Caine told Whitcombe.
“She’s in with a bad crowd up there,” the lawyer began. “Casual drug use. Some evidence of dealing; but, that’s just for openers.” Whitcombe stole a glance at Cecilia, then sighed heavily.
“Go on,” urged Caine.
“There’s a personal
Like everyone else who had called, Bette had read
The Wall Street Journal
and
The New York Times
, both of which had run articles suggesting that, in the aftermath of the Utah mining disaster, unknown suitors were planning to make a strong takeover bid for Fitzer, and Montaro’s position was in jeopardy.
“It’s been jumping off the hook all afternoon, the private line and my cell too,” Cecilia said, indicating the phone that had momentarily fallen silent. Montaro responded with a detached nod.
“I hope this won’t get in the way of any of our summer plans,” said Cecilia. “We can’t miss P.L.’s birthday. And we’ve already paid for the rental of the beach house in Southampton for August.”
“I don’t think we’ll have to undo anything. At least not yet,” Caine said. His thoughts had shifted from Priscilla to the business with Herman Freich, Colette Beekman, and the reappearance of the coin from his past. He hadn’t yet told Cecilia about all that he had discussed with Freich and Beekman and the memories that discussion had conjured up. Cecilia was a woman of strong emotions, much like his mother; he worried that she would get unrealistically hopeful if he told her about the coin, then disappointed if things didn’t work out.
“Fine,” said Cecilia. “But whatever happens, P.L.’s birthday is a must. We have to be there.”
“Of course,” Montaro said. Philip L. Caine, Montaro’s childhood protector, would turn ninety-nine this year, and Montaro knew what his grandfather’s loss would mean to his wife as well as to him. Death had come often to Cecilia in her forty-four years. Her father, mother, older brother, her mother’s sister, Dolly, and Dolly’s husband, Jake—Cecilia had no one left from the family she was born into. When she was decorating her husband’s office, she had hung the portraits of her mother and Dolly on his walls, two raven-haired women who closelyresembled Cecilia, as if to remind her husband that he could take nothing for granted. It was no secret to Montaro that his wife’s huge appetite for life was born out of her fear of death. And he understood, too, that this was part of the reason she clung so protectively to Priscilla and those remaining few on his side of the family—she had not learned the art of letting go, a talent he had perfected when he was just a boy.
“Don’t worry, honey, we’ll go,” he told his wife. He put his arms around her and drew her near.
Once again, the phone exploded in the quiet kitchen. And once again, both Montaro and Cecilia glanced at it, then looked away. A few seconds later, a door slammed shut upstairs. Assuming Priscilla and Whitcombe were on their way, Cecilia kissed her husband, then moved to the stove to ready her daughter’s warm milk.
Gordon Whitcombe entered the room alone and sat across the table from Montaro.
“Isn’t Prissy coming?” Cecilia asked accusingly.
“No, she’s not.”
“Why not?”
“She said she doesn’t feel like it.”
“What did you do to her?”
“Nothing, Cecilia.” The phones droned on. Though Whitcombe didn’t say much, his weary appearance indicated that he and Priscilla had had a difficult exchange.
“She’s all right,” Whitcombe said quickly. “Just hold your horses, Cecilia.” Turning to Montaro, he continued. “She’s a lot like you; she’s tough, that kid—mind of her own. I still don’t have it all clear, but what I do have is not good. In fact, it’s a hell of a lot rougher than either of you probably think.”
Cecilia turned away from the two men, pretending to concentrate on the stove.
“Get to it,” Caine told Whitcombe.
“She’s in with a bad crowd up there,” the lawyer began. “Casual drug use. Some evidence of dealing; but, that’s just for openers.” Whitcombe stole a glance at Cecilia, then sighed heavily.
“Go on,” urged Caine.
“There’s a personal
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