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“We think it’s time you go on a date,” Quincy says.
“Whoa. I thought men were strictly forbidden.”
“Assholes are. The others who aren’t assholes have to pass a test.”
I huff. “Thanks for offering your assistance, but I don’t need a date.”
“We know a guy––” Rhett begins.
“What are you?” I tap my foot in annoyance. “A dating service?”
“It’ll do you good,” Quincy says.
“No, thanks. Can we go? Kris made chicken a la king, and I’m starving.”
Rhett is nothing if not insistent when he wants to be. “Why not?”
I lift my left hand and splay my fingers to show my wedding ring. “Because I’m married.”
“Val,” there’s a plea in Quincy’s voice, “you’re widowed.”
“One date,” Rhett says. “If you don’t like the guy, we’ll find someone else.”
“Thanks for your concern, but if I need an escort service, I’ll let you know.”
I don’t give them time to answer. I stride to the garage as if I don’t have a care in the world when I’m tearing up inside. I can’t stop hurting. I can’t stop wanting Gabriel back. Three months have passed, and I haven’t made any headway in tracing him. I did my own internet searches and asked around, but nobody has seen Gabriel since the morning of the explosion. I need a PI. For that, I need money, and for money I need the business to work. I refuse to give up on Gabriel.
“All in good time,” I say to myself.
“Yes,” Quincy agrees eagerly. “In good time.”
He has no idea.
Another Christmas comes and goes. Kris employs a new practice manager. We agreed it’s better that I resign to focus on my inherited business. It takes me four months to understand the funds in which Gabriel invested the capital and return on investments, and another month to analyze them. A small, maverick type stockbroker company, McGregor and Harris, made the best return at a growth of twenty-five percent. The bank is paying a measly one percent on our tied capital, and our long-term investment policies are losing money at minus eight percent.
I call McGregor and Harris and set up a meeting with one of the two shareholders, Herman Harris. Their office is a humble room in a brand-new office block in Midrand. Harris gives my guys, as I came to call Quincy, Rhett, Charlie, and Connor, a curious look when we pile up in the narrow hallway in front of his door.
“Charlie and I’ll take Bruno for a walk,” Rhett offers, taking Connor from Quincy’s arms.
Harris stares at my baby. “You call him Bruno?”
“That’s the dog,” I explain.
“Wow.” He scratches his head. “You brought a dog, too?”
I shrug. “My entourage.”
“Come in.” He steps aside. “We only have two visitor’s chairs.”
“That’ll be enough.”
I study Harris as he directs us to two office chairs. He’s a lot younger than I expected. Definitely still in his twenties.
When Quincy and I have taken our seats, I dive straight into business. “Mr. Harris, you’ve––”
“Herman, please.” He runs a hand over his suit. “I’m a casual guy. I only dressed up for this meeting. Usually I’m in a T-shirt and jeans.”
“Thank you, although, it wasn’t necessary. I don’t mind casual. As I was saying, you’ve been running one of my husband’s investment funds for the past five years.”
“My condolences. My partner and I were shocked when we heard the news.”
“Yes. How do you make twenty-five percent when other companies make five?”
“Your late husband gave us a small amount of money to invest at high risk. The high risk paid off.”
“You play the stock market exceptionally well.”
“We study the trends and know how to predict them.” His eyes sparkle. This is clearly his passion. “All our clients are low capital, high risk investors, which allows us to play around quite a bit. We invest the combined capital of our clients by buying up low-cost shares that show potential for big growth.”
“How does your process work?”
“If I tell you, I have to kill you.” He laughs at his own joke.
“What I mean to ask is how can you be sure of your predictions?”
He swivels a big computer flat screen toward me. “We wrote a software program that takes various internal and external socio-economic and political factors into consideration. It’s better than any other software program out there. It maps trends we can analyze and feed back into the program, always bettering itself. Then there’s this.” He wiggles his fingers. “The magic touch. Intuition. I have a nose for these things.”
“I have a proposition for you. I want you to scrap the trust fund management fee you charge us.”
He scrunches up his nose. “You want us to manage your investment for free?”
“Not for free. I’m prepared to pay you ten percent of the profit you make on our invested capital.”
He laughs and scratches his head. “That’s a clever business proposition, but ten percent of what you earn in profit won’t cover our fee.”
