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“Fire away,” I say.
“What do you do?” she asks.
“Jack-of-all-trades.”
“Doing what?”
Shrugging, I drawl, “Anything that makes money.”
“I’m sure you can be more specific than that. This could mean weapons dealer.” She folds her arms over her chest.
Fine. Let’s play.
“Equities, corporations, currencies, commodities. Though I’m on a recent ban for insider trading. Two years.”
All eyes shift to us. I’ve yet to address the subject in this room, having inherited from my father the unsavory trait of never giving people what they want.
“Why?” she demands.
“Market manipulation charges.” Before she asks what that means, I explain, “They say I misrepresented material to investors, among other misconducts.”
“Did you do it?” Winnifred holds my gaze, looking childlike in her innocence.
With the whole room watching, I swipe my tongue over my bottom lip, smirking. “I have one issue, Winnifred.”
“Just the one?” She blinks innocently before relenting. “And what’s your issue?”
“I never play to lose.”
Her eyes, as pretty as bluebonnets, are still on mine. An uncharitable thought crosses my mind. She’d probably look ten times better in Grace’s aquamarine earrings. Seeing her in nothing but those earrings would bring me a lot of joy. Oh well. Maybe Grace will misbehave and dump me soon, and I’ll take up a quick affair with this little thing to remind my stepsister that I’m still a man with needs.
“And people here accept you?” Winnifred looks around us, surprised. “Even though they know you did something bad and undermined their trade?”
“The dog barks and the caravan moves on.” I lounge back. “Even people who care stop caring once sentiments translate into action. Humans are notoriously selfish creatures, Winnifred. This is why the Russians invaded Ukraine. Why the Afghans were left to fend for themselves. Why there’s a humanitarian crisis in Yemen, Syria, Sudan, and you don’t even hear about it. Because people forget. They get mad, and move on.”
“I care.” She bares her teeth at me like a wounded animal. “I care about all those things, and just because you don’t doesn’t mean that others are as bad. You’re a dangerous man.”
“Dangerous!” Grace shrieks, forcing out a laugh. “Oh, no. He’s just a kitten. We all are, in the family. Harmless number crunchers.” She fans herself, blabbering. “Which I understand isn’t as exciting as showbiz. You know, my dad owns a theater. I used to go there all the time as a kid. I found it totally charming.”
While it is true that Douglas owns a theater, Grace just pretended to like it growing up to earn his approval. Theater is a low-margin field. Gracelynn only likes things that make money.
The diversion mission is a success. Winnifred averts her attention to Grace and asks her questions about Calypso Hall. Grace answers enthusiastically.
My phone begins to ring. I tug it out of my pocket. The area code says Scarsdale, but I don’t recognize the number. I hit decline. Chip tries to ask me something about Nordic Equities.
My phone rings again. Same number. I hit decline.
Get the hint.
Damn scammers and their ability to use numbers in your area code.
The next call arrives from a different number, still in New York. I’m about to turn the thing off when Grace rests a hand over my thigh and says through gritted teeth, while listening to Winnifred gushing about Hamilton, “Could be the jeweler. About the necklace you bought me from Botswana. Answer it.”
The phone rings a fourth time. Standing up, I excuse myself and amble out of the restaurant’s door and to the balcony overlooking the harbor. I swipe the green button.
“What?” I spit out.
“Arsène?” a voice asks. It is old, male, and vaguely familiar.
“Unfortunately. Who’s this?”
“It’s Bernard, your father’s assistant.”
I check the time on my watch. It is four in the afternoon in New York. What can my father possibly want from me? We rarely talk. I make the trip to Scarsdale a few times a year to show my face and discuss family business—his idea of bonding, I suppose—but other than that, we’re virtual strangers. I don’t exactly hate him, but I don’t like him either. The feeling, or lack of it, I’m sure, is mutual.
“Yes, Bernard?” I ask impatiently, parking my elbows on the railings.
“I don’t know how to say this . . .” He trails off.
“Fast and without mincing words would be my preferable method,” I suggest. “What is it? Is the old man getting hitched again?”
Ever since divorcing Miranda, my father has been making it a point to have another woman on his arm every couple of years. He doesn’t make any promises anymore. Never settles down. An affair with a Langston woman is the fastest cure to believing in the notion of love.
“Arsène . . .” Bernard gulps. “Your father . . . he’s dead.”
The world continues spinning. People around me are laughing, smoking, drinking, enjoying a perfectly mild Italian summer night. A plane passes in the sky, penetrating a fat white cloud. Humanity is completely unfazed by the news that Douglas Corbin, the fifth-richest man in the USA, has passed away. And why should it be? Mortality is only an insult to rich people. Most accept it with sad resignation.
