said, “Hear me out: you and Fiona are the most important people in what’s left of my life, and I must say what has to be said and do what must be done.”
“I have apologized.”
“And I’ve accepted it. Nothing unpleasant this evening, I promise.”
The wine steward approached. Drew glanced at the wine list and ordered a light Chianti. The steward suggested an expensive Barolo that would flatter our meals. Drew didn’t agree; the steward tried again, and Drew insisted on the Chianti.
The steward smirked and left.
Watching him leave, Drew said, “That young man doesn’t know his trade. He’s here to guide customers instead of selling them the top of the wine list. Wine has become like art: Salesmen bullying inexperienced customers into overpriced items they don’t understand and won’t appreciate.”
The steward returned with the Chianti and poured Drew a tasting. Drew examined the wine from several angles, spun it around in the glass before tasting. “Tastes okay,” he said, “but how does it sound?” He put the glass to his ear. Moving his shoulders, he said, “What a delightful tarantella.” The steward stared across the room. Drew smiled. “Why don’t you pour this vivacious little wine?”
The steward poured and stalked off. “For his effort, he lost his tip,” Drew said. “Now, tell me about your dreadful flight.” I was describing the evening in Denver, and Drew asked, “Who was this other person?”
“Another banker, Helen Jacobs, works for Growers and Ranchers.”
“Marital status?”
“Recently and painfully divorced.”
“And is Alexander Romanovsky, confident heterosexual, going to follow up?”
“Mordant observations don’t make for the pleasant evening I was promised.”
Drew arched his eyebrows. “Touchy, touchy. Going to call on the beguiling Ms. Jacobs?”
“I don’t know.”
“Didn’t you tell me once that bankers are so boring that they’re forced to talk to each other?”
“As a matter of fact, we did spend time talking about banking.”
“Why not give her a call and continue the conversation?” Drew made a playful face. “Or drop by for a chat about foreclosures? That must turn on bankers?”
“Actually, that’s one of the worst things that can happen to a loan.” I laughed. “I’ll give her a call.”
Drew sipped the wine as the waiter served our meals. “Tell me about Russia,” he said, looking at his plate with no interest.
I tasted the veal and said, “Well, the system is falling apart. Nothing works; corruption snares everyone.”
I stopped and watched Drew roll a piece of bread into a small ball. He put the bread down, looked at me, and blinked. He closed his eyes, then opened them. He seemed surprised to see me. “Sorry, I get distracted these days. Tell me more about Russia.”
“Later,” I said and got the conversation around to him. Drew always pretended to be astonished that millionaires ranging from Texas oil barons to Silicon Valley moguls paid him to buy their art with their money. His anecdotes were etched with acid diluted with self-deprecation. He was telling me about two Texans, Reba and Floyd, when I asked, “How many paintings did you sell them?”
“By the yard or in dollars?” Drew rolled his eyes. “Remember our plans, our dreams? As people get older, they become too self-conscious to wonder, too jaded to dream. That’s a pity.” He pushed his plate away. “I’ve compromised, boy, have I, and ended up fawning over the likes of Reba and Floyd. And you, you’re a banker, of all things.”
I shrugged.
“Say, speaking of my clients, what were you and Townie talking about?”
“He told me that he wanted to run a deal by Fiona. Townie lost interest when I told him I had nothing to do with her businesses.”
“That’s all?”
“No, after that, Fiona told me that Townie’s son, Chip, was putting the deal together. She wants me to ask around at the bank about Townie and his company.”
“Townie’s quite something, isn’t he?”
“You know, people who’ve gone to those schools—Harvard and Yale—always work it into conversations but never ask where you went to college.”
“They’re being polite and assume you’ll reply with something like Panhandle A&M. Did Townie tell you that he went to Yale?”
“He did. Well, no, not exactly.”
“You presumed Yale, like he hoped.” Drew laughed. “Townie could convince a Yalie he went there. Not a bad guy; in a way, I feel sorry for him. Wife number two, the recently acquired, slim-hipped Debra, has Townie right where she wants him. I understand Debra wants Fiona to sponsor her into the Opera Alliance. Debra and Fiona, that’ll be interesting.”
“What’s with Debra?”
“She’s pushy,” Drew said. “Pushy doesn’t work with the Opera Alliance. Old money, and lots of it, does. Fiona setting Debra straight on that should be interesting. They’re both quite volatile.”
“Were Townie and Debra good clients?”
“Debra has a good eye and bought excellent pieces. Changing subjects…your job’s going well after the Moscow assignment?”
“It’s going okay. There will be a new CEO soon. That means a reorganization of some sort…probably major shifts in senior management with some bloodletting. But that won’t impact me.”
“Your time in Russia notwithstanding, same old thing, day in, day out?”
“Oh, in a way, sure. I’ve fallen into something of a routine.”
“Spinning your wheels?” Drew asked.
“Sort of. That often happens in big organizations. After my last promotion, it’ll be years until the next one or a new assignment.”
Drew tented his fingers. “Maybe we can help each other. You know art and art history, and you’re a natural at interior decorating. I want you to consider taking over my business and redirecting it to suit yourself. All I do is listen to people, shape their desires, inform and guide them. You’d love it.”
“I’m thunderstruck…don’t know what to say.”
“Then let me do the talking,” Drew said. “As it stands, one of Fiona’s lawyers will liquidate my estate and the business when the time comes. Some of the funds will repay the loans I took from Fiona to start the business. I could have repaid her ages ago but didn’t—just to annoy her. If you agree, I’ll have my will reworked so you can take over the business and repay Fiona. Just be your charming self, and the business will remain quite profitable.”
“I’m
