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She’d struck a nerve here, and Cal wasn’t finished.
“We’re not even talking about the rich who are repugnant human beings, who actively discriminate against people with less opportunity, who are abusive, racists, homophobes, misogynists. Who are violent and unstable and terrorize their wives and children and never met a consequence they couldn’t buy their way out of.”
He held his bottle up, and the sunlight glanced off it. “The world belongs to the very rich in a way it doesn’t to the rest of us.” He brought the bottle to his lips and sipped. “And that means they get to do whatever the fuck they want, however the fuck they want.”
Fin plucked a grape off the bunch he had set out between them. There were bad grapes in every bunch, that didn’t mean grapes weren’t still delicious. “But there are laws, regulations.”
“Not for these guys. They buy themselves immunity with fancy legal teams and clever accounting, with the right friends and donations to reelection campaigns and causes that support their decision making.”
“But not every seriously rich person can be like that.” Lenny had been seriously rich, and she was the most generous person Fin had ever met.
“No. Some families have extraordinary honor, feel a weight of obligation, and spend their wealth improving the world. But they’re the minority. It’s a sad fact that the wealthiest Americans contribute less than two percent of their income to charity. And they tend to give it to colleges and universities, museums and the arts, or fashionable charities. They don’t give to organizations that serve the poor or the disadvantaged. They barely remember they exist.”
Fin abandoned her sandwich. “That can’t be right.”
“There are studies that prove it. The rich fund charities that fit with their elite lifestyle. People on low incomes are consistently more generous with more limited means, and they give to charities that help people in need. They pay it forward when they can as a kind of insurance for when they might need help themselves. Not something the rich have to worry about.”
If Cal was right about this, he really was the yellow brick road and the Wizard, and no amount of heart, courage, or smarts would get her what she wanted alone.
“Why don’t you do business with nice rich people?”
“Because I’d feel guilty when I lose their money. I like taking money from the ugly rich because they’re more likely to be assholes and it’s guilt free.”
“Any evil billionaire women?”
Cal set his bottle aside and took his tie off, undoing his collar, then both cuffs, rolling them back. “I’m sure they’re out there, but I haven’t met one yet. And I hope I never do.”
“You’re a shark.”
“That’s true. I swim in dangerous waters.” He pulled the package of crackers out of the basket. “Is there cheese?”
He found the cheese and unwrapped it, placed it on the plastic plate alongside the grapes, with the little plastic knife and a sprinkle of crackers.
“You like cheese?” she asked, because she didn’t know what to say about his view on the rich.
He handed her a cracker with a slice of cheddar on top. “I like this picnic. And I’m trying not to think about what it means.”
She ate the cracker and watched him watching her. He lay on his side, legs outst
retched, head propped on his hand.
She tugged at her skirt. He could still make her nervous. “I came here to convince you that you needed me. But that’s a lie. It’s me who needs you.”
“Because you lost your meal ticket when Jeffrey Bradshaw fucked up.”
She flinched, balling the skirt in her hand before smoothing it back out. “How do you know that?”
“I checked you out, Fin. I couldn’t let you in my shark tank if I didn’t know what kind of fish you were and who you swam with.”
Checked her out. There wasn’t much to know about her, she hadn’t already told him. “I thought I could learn from you and then do this for myself, but it’s not only about having the Cal Sherwood formula. It’s about being with Cal Sherwood.”
“I got you started. It will be slower on your own, but if you persist, you can do it.”
Persistence had never been her strong point. She’d read an article that said self-control was a failed construct, that the plate of cookies in front of you always won and the only people who could truly beat it were the people who didn’t like cookies in the first place. She’d always liked cookies, and Cal was the most delicious one she’d tasted.
“It won’t be the buzz of doing it with you.”
He rolled to his back, hands behind his head and closed his eyes. She lay on the rug beside him and looked at the ceiling tiles. In a moment, she’d have to pack up the picnic, shake his hand, and thank him. She’d have to walk out of his life and away from his yellow brick road and be on her own with no plan and barely rehearsed persistence.
