“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 hardly charming.”
“There may be charming bankers,” Drew said, “but I doubt you’re one of them. At the bank, I bet you’re pretty stolid, but in my world, you effervesce. At my receptions, your enthusiasm was spontaneous, compelling. Why not do so for the rest of your life?”
“Why not?”
The waiter cleared our plates. We declined dessert, and Drew ordered a cognac for me and leaned back. “Sure, I make fun of my customers, some of whom think discrimination is a social problem afflicting black people. Others are vulgarity incarnate: a price I paid, the price you’ll pay. But some people get it. Bringing them along is rewarding, and I’m not talking about the money. Many start loving art for art’s sake.”
“I’m too excited to think it through.”
“Great to hear,” Drew said. “Alexander, you don’t like yourself; it’s the residue of Tatiana’s suicide. Self-hatred destroyed her, and”—he looked away—“you’re doing penance for the suicide; wasting your God-given talent as a banker is wrong.”
“I’m not doing penance. You don’t understand. How could you?”
“But I do understand.” Drew leaned closer. “Self-loathing, that’s your problem. The older you get, the harder it will be to control. And I fear you might end up like, well, like Tatiana.” Drew took my hands. “Sorry to get so personal, but it’s true. You know that?”
“Oh, I don’t know, there are times that, I wish… I pray… But, yes, from time to time the self-revulsion boils up.”
“There’s nothing you could have done to have prevented Tatiana’s death. If you follow the path you were meant to take, I’m sure you’ll start looking at yourself without the self-loathing. A fresh start; it’s my gift to you.” He squeezed my hands. “Say something.”
“You told me this was going to be a pleasant evening.”
“Take my offer, and you’ll remember it as momentous.”
“Don’t you think I’m more stable than my mother?”
“You’ve got a lot of Tatiana in you: the physical resemblance, of course, her vulnerability, her passion for art.” He shook his head. “Tatiana was amazing; there wasn’t much she didn’t know about paintings. Even with my lousy French, I could spend hours listening to her. That stopped when she got so confused and started going on about…” Drew shook his head.
“About what?”
“Crazy things.” Drew frowned. “Bad word that. She kept going back to Paris and reliving the German occupation.” Tapping his head, he added, “Memory is going, that’s all I remember.” Drew poured himself a glass of wine and drank it. “As for my business, I don’t expect an immediate answer, but…”
“My mind’s going a mile a minute.”
“Excellent.” He handed me a thin wrapped package.
It was a picture of Drew and me. He had taken the photo with a timed camera that summer at the Tahoe house. Tan and fit, we were facing the camera with our arms around each other’s shoulders. I was wearing khakis, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows, and penny loafers. He was barefooted in Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt. Drew was smiling; my expression was neutral.
The waiter served my cognac, and Drew said, “I’ll be damned, you’re blushing. It’s meant as a memento, not an embarrassment. Look at your eyes, what are they saying?”
“They’re somewhat guarded.”
“Your eyes were telling a story. Without Tatiana, you were lost and too terrified to admit it. Fred’s eyes were the same when I met him—the initial attraction. With Fred I discovered something about myself: I’m a Samaritan. I rescued Fred. He was clinging to one man, then another.”
“You want to rescue me from myself?”
“From where I’m afraid you may be headed.” Drew’s eyes were glistening, “I’ve said enough. It’s been a taxing day for both of us; come on, walk me to my car.”
We walked down the empty street without speaking. Next to his car, Drew took my shoulders. “Tell me one thing, please. You loved me when that picture was taken?” He put a finger to my lips. “No rationalizations, no time for that.”
“I loved you.”
“Did I use you?”
“I never thought so.”
“I love you, Alexander, always have. But you’ve known that all along, right?”
“Yes, I have.”
I thought he was going to kiss me, but we embraced. As the door opened, the car’s interior light illuminated Drew—a man stepping from the shadows of a Rembrandt painting. But the fog-diffused light was more El Greco: a man approaching eternity. I watched as he drove toward the