“Your daughter’s a rather headstrong young lady.” It was an understatement from a man well-versed in overstatements.
“Then get tough, Jeff. I want to announce her engagement in three months, and when she’s off swapping spit and who knows what other bodily fluids with a bartender at some newfangled club in the Meatpacking District, it’s not going to happen.”
Jeff lifted his head and backtracked for a moment. “What engagement? A marriage engagement?”
“Sure. Sheldon’s marrying the heir to Con-Mason U.S.A. We’re signing all the papers in a few weeks.” Wayne rubbed his hands together. “It’ll be the biggest merger this side of the Mississip since Exxon-Mobil. Course that’d be west of the Mississip. Damn, it’d be the biggest merger in this whole gosh-darned country.”
“She knows this?”
“The merger?”
“The marriage?” asked Jeff, frowning.
“Sure. Joshua’s a presentable boy, Harvard grad, one of the cities most eligible bachelors, and we’ve had a long talk. Right proud of my little girl.”
“An engagement,” muttered Jeff. This wasn’t the Dark Ages where women were forced to submit to the whims of men. At least, in most cases.
“It’s a win-win for everybody. Sheldon gets more money than God and the devil combined. Summerville CP gets expansion into the Chinese markets that Con-Mason’s already has such a lock on. And best of all, there’ll be no taxes to pay on the stock swap because of the laws of this fine country that protect the sacred union between a man and his wife. God bless the USA.”
Jeff felt the urge to cross himself but refrained because he didn’t think Wayne would see the humor.
“I’ll do better, sir. Now that I have a full understanding of the situation, I’m sure Sheldon and I can work something out,” he said earnestly, all while subversive ideas were buzzing around in his head.
Yeah, he’d talk to her. He could rescue her. Explain to her the options she had. Jeff choreographed the entire scene, heroic orchestration playing in the background. Close up to her sea-blue eyes as she stared at him worshipfully.
Jeff smiled to himself.
“And I’ve got an incentive for you, Jeff. Sort of my way of insuring that we all succeed. When the merger happens between Con-Mason U.S.A. and Summerville CP, we’re going to need a firm to do all our public relations work. Never believed in trying to do that sort of thing in-house, better to let the pros handle it. And I think Columbia-Starr Communications would be right perfect. Course, then they’d have to call it Columbia-Starr-Brooks Communications. Sounds nice, don’t you think? Just like heavenly bells to a man’s ear.”
Then Wayne grinned at Jeff, his sea-blue eyes long faded to dollar-sign green.
And thus, Jeff was slapped back into the coffee-cup dregs of his reality. The world of Sheldon Summerville was a gold-studded planet, a monied universe. Wayne Summerville bought companies over breakfast and Jeff Brooks saved up eight long years for a boat. Tomorrow’s disillusions were today’s grand illusions. In his business, Jeff had to be careful not to believe his own spin.
He examined the Columbia-Starr logo, thinking that maybe there was a place for Brooks on the coffee cup, too.
The heroic orchestrations playing in his head screeched to a full stop, and the picture of Sheldon’s sea-blue eyes, once lit with heroic worship, faded to black.
Like that would ever happen anyway.
2
THERE WAS ONLY ONE PERSON that Jeff depended on for advice. Himself. However, when gazillion-dollar financial matters were involved, he was out of his league, although he’d never admit it to anybody, especially his older brother, Andrew.
And it was for this reason that, when he called Andrew to meet him for happy hour, he told his brother that he needed to hit him up for money for a charitable donation.
Andrew was a successful hedge-fund manager—a hugely successful hedge-fund manager.
Jeff tried not to compare his successes to Andrew’s, because he’d always come up short—several billion short, in case anyone was counting. Of course even God couldn’t really compare to Andrew’s successes. But to be fair, God took a day off once a week, and Andrew never did. Jeff was a firm believer in a day off.
“So, what’s this cause of yours?” asked Andrew, sitting at the bar, sipping on his beer.
“Heart disease in kids. We’re doing a campaign to raise awareness. There’s some great breakthroughs in the medical community, new drugs that are entering trials and we’re putting together a complete media package, kicking off with this Their Hearts On The Line campaign. Great stuff. Really hits you right here,” said Jeff, laying a hand over his chest.
“How much do you need?”
“What’s the life of a child worth to you, Andrew? Then multiply that by fifty.”
“That’s serious cash.”
“Heart disease is serious business.”
“All right,” said Andrew, who then wrote one very large check.
Jeff tucked the paper in his pocket; he’d mail it to a charity tomorrow. He loved his brother unconditionally, owed him in ways that he could never pay back, but sometimes a man had to have a little fun. Separating Andrew from his vault full of money was Jeff’s favorite game. In the old days, those checks would be made out to Jeff, but eventually Jeff had managed on his own, so he had to think of new, better and more philanthropic causes for Andrew’s millions.
As the checks had gotten bigger, Andrew developed a reputation as a high roller within charity circles, and Jeff got to watch the pained expression on Andrew’s face as he signed his name at the bottom of each and every one.
Life didn’t get any better than this.
“So, how’re you doing?” asked Jeff. “How’s the new firm?”
“Lots of work,” said Andrew, blowing out a breath. “But worth it.”
“Saw where Jamie made the cover of Forbes.”
“Yeah,” said Andrew. At the mention of his girlfriend, Andrew’s face reflected something approaching humanity.
Whatever.
Jeff leaned against the bar and spotted a brunette watching him over the rim of her glass. Automatically he smiled at her, because deep in his genetic makeup, Jeff was wired for one thing: sex.
Andrew watched the interplay but didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to, his eyes said it all. Andrew disapproved of Jeff’s lifestyle. Big whoop.
“I got a call from Ed Weinberger at Stockard-Vine Public Relations. We played on a golf foursome a while back. Anyway, he had a question about some stock, and I mentioned you to him. Turns out they’re looking for a VP. You should think about it.”
Jeff frowned into his beer mug. That was the problem with being around Andrew. His brother reminded him of the other thing that existed beyond sex and Jeff’s boat fund: responsibilities, with a capital R. The brunette stopped her perusing, and Jeff took a long swallow of beer. Responsibilities were best taken on when drunk.
Eventually, the taste of the lager left his mouth, but the sour taste of life remained.
Jeff met his brother’s eyes squarely. “Andrew, I’m not eighteen anymore. I have a career and a job that I got all by myself. I don’t need your help.”
Someday, his brother might understand that Jeff wanted to make it solo. ’Course, Andrew would probably be dead before it all