31
Burroughs Enterprises occupied five floors in the First Union building. The Whitney Advertising Agency was on the floor directly below. Carol Whitney, a no-nonsense woman in her late fifties or early sixties, didn’t have a smile to her name. Her iron-gray hair was worn stylishly short, and her beige suit showed off a trim figure. Her large hands were unadorned, save for a gold Cartier watch. The slight hint of a Southern accent did nothing to soften the determination with which she addressed Esther. “My remit, as I understand it, is to maximize your exposure while remaining completely unseen.”
Esther was utterly comfortable with her direct approach. “So long as the audience’s interest is genuine. So long as the people come because they’re confident they’ll find what they’re looking for.”
“Ms. Larsen, I run an advertising company. I do not have a miracles department. If people are not interested, they will not come.”
“Understood.” Esther glanced at Talmadge, wondering if she needed to emphasize her concerns again.
Talmadge Burroughs was seated in a straight-back chair brought in from the conference room. “Carol and I have reached an understanding.”
“I have been instructed to inform you that we are being paid for our efforts,” the woman said. “And everything must be passed by you for approval before being implemented.”
Esther settled back, satisfied. “So let’s hear it.”
They spent the next hour running through various elements that Esther did not need to fully understand. Several staffers entered, made swift and professional pitches, then disappeared. Esther asked a couple of questions she hoped would sound interested and engaged. She was rewarded with a complexity of data that would have drawn looks of admiration from her own geeks. She gave it sixty minutes, and then before Carol turned to the next project, she said, “I think that’s clear enough. It sounds as if you have everything well in hand. Thank you.”
“But we still need to cover your Twitter feed,” Carol protested. “Not to mention the dissemination of your upcoming broadcasts, and—”
“Basically what you’re telling me is that your team is setting up alerts in as many different places as possible,” Esther replied. “But my work is the driver. Either it ignites an interest or it vanishes.”
“Well . . . yes.”
“Fine. I agree.” Esther turned to a grinning Talmadge. “Don’t look so smug.”
“It does my heart good,” he said, “watching you climb down off your high horse.”
“I never . . .” She could not quite hide her own smile.
“You were gonna tell me about something new.”
“It would form the seventh step on my website,” she replied, then glanced at Carol.
“Might as well give it to her now. If I like it, she’ll be hearing about it soon enough.”
“I want to set up a hedge fund,” Esther said. “One aimed at protecting people.”
At Carol’s blank look, Esther explained that a hedge fund was an investment vehicle that pooled capital from major depositors and invested in securities and other instruments. In most cases, they leveraged their investments, paying only a small percentage of the actual investment’s total value. This could take the form of short-term debt, or derivatives, or a number of other more complex directions. They also hedged their investments by taking positions that limited their potential risk. If a market or industry valuation fell below a certain level, the “floor” went into effect, cutting their losses.
Esther then added, “Hedge funds are largely ungoverned and highly secretive. They charge a flat up-front fee of around seven percent, taking an additional twenty percent of all profits they generate.”
“There’s bound to be some of them out there already,” Talmadge noted.
“There are.”
“Yours is different, then.”
“In three ways. First, hedge funds generally refuse to accept any investment under a hundred thousand dollars. They also require investors to have a minimum net worth of five million. I want to open this to everyone. Thousand-dollar minimum.”
“Ten thousand,” Talmadge corrected.
“A thousand dollars,” Esther insisted. “And further investments will be welcome in increments of five hundred.”
“You’re gonna be deluged with worried grannies.”
“And secretaries,” Esther agreed. “And young families. Anyone who wants a hedge against what is worrying us.”
Talmadge kneaded the head of his cane.
Esther went on, “Second, we will operate in a completely transparent manner.”
“Which means every Tom, Dick, and Harry can copy you.”
“If they want to, fine. This isn’t about making money. Well, it is. Of course I’ll try to deliver a profit to my investors. But mostly this is about protection for those who have none.”
“And third?”
“All investors under twenty-five thousand dollars will pay no up-front charge. And if there is a profit, our take will be limited to ten percent. Above that level of investment, we charge the standard fees.”
It was the first time she had spoken to Talmadge about an actual business proposal. She watched closely as he deliberated. Anything could happen. He could give her tacit approval and not help her obtain the required funds, or accept the role of that all-important first investor. He could condemn her for setting up a business model that risked losing money in a variety of spectacular methods.
He looked at Carol. “What do you think?”
“I can definitely sell this.”
“No question?”
“Visits to her site are running close to seventy thousand an hour,” Carol said. “This hedge fund concept is a logical next step. People are wanting a means to protect themselves, invest what they can, prepare for the worst. This new idea fits perfectly.”
Talmadge said to Esther, “Give me a couple of hours.”
Esther got caught in rush-hour traffic and required seventy minutes to drive the five miles to Patricia’s home. She arrived to find Patricia in the kitchen with her sister and daughter. Rachel was making an apple strudel, kneading cinnamon and sugar and sour cream into the dough, which she assured Esther was the secret. Patricia was dressing and sautéing chicken for the grill. Lacy prepared a Cobb salad in a large earthenware bowl. Patricia told Esther, “You can take me away to some quiet corner or you can draw up a stool. But you can’t help. There isn’t room for a fourth cook.”
“I’ll quit,” Lacy offered.
“You will do no such thing. A good cook never switches serfs in midstream.”
Esther only needed a moment to decide. “Here is good.” She turned to Lacy and observed, “You’re looking better.”
Lacy tried for a bright lilt. “I’m staying home for spring break, my mother is fattening me up, and my awful former boyfriend is somewhere far away. Hopefully being miserable and lonely and full of bitter regret.”
“I hear the Faroe Islands are especially brutal this time of year,” Rachel suggested. “We could send him a ticket.”
The kitchen went silent then. Esther knew they were waiting. It astonished her how easy it was to talk with them. After a lifetime of hiding everything away, here she was, seated in a corner of a brightly lit kitchen, on the verge of relating events to three women from very different walks of life. A faint whisper ran through her mind, protesting that they were strangers and always would be. But the voice was stifled within the space of a single long breath.
As she recounted the events surrounding Craig and his daughters, Esther thought she sounded dry and utterly disconnected. But there was nothing she could do about that. She did not try to describe her inner tumult because she did not know how.
Even so, when she finished, Rachel said, “I could kill that guy.”
“You can’t do away with a pastor,” Patricia warned. “It’s written somewhere in the church code of ethics.”
“He’s not a pastor yet.” Rachel pounded the dough. “If he doesn’t watch out, he never will be.”
Esther asked, “So you don’t think I did something wrong?”
Lacy shook her head. “I’ve been humming that same dirge a lot recently. Mostly late at night.”
“No, honey,” Patricia said to Esther. “I think you told Craig exactly what he needed to hear. His girls don’t want to be part of a pastor’s family. Regardless of everything else they’re facing, this is not going to change. We can all see that.”
Rachel sprinkled flour over the dough. “You answered his question honestly and from the heart. You didn’t insist. You didn’t order. You didn’t criticize.”
Patricia said, “You know what I like best? Your first thought was for the two girls who have been struggling with a very difficult situation.”
“Those girls have needed an adult to be on their side,” Rachel agreed.
“Craig is on their side,” Esther pointed out.
“He’s also involved. You asked him to see his life from their perspective.” Rachel pounded hard enough to shoot a cloud of flour into her face. “Craig should have seen that and thanked you.”
“Why, Aunt Rachel,” Lacy said, “you’ve gone all white.”
Esther felt the moment crystallize inside her. The flash of realization went far deeper than just the issues with Craig. Up to that point, she had been involved in the public warnings mostly on a mental level. She understood her motives. She analyzed the events and knew she had to act. She was objective. She was . . .
Removed. Distant.
Craig’s earlier question came alive in her mind and heart. Why was she doing this?
Esther said softly, “I understand.”
“I wish I did,” Rachel said.
This was what it meant, to care for one another. To lift one another’s burdens. To offer light in a dark hour. To counsel. To . . .
To care.
Esther wished desperately for Craig to be here now. So she could share this realization with him. She confessed, “I miss him.”
Patricia asked, “Should I call him?”
“Sure can’t be me,” Rachel said, with a last punch at the dough. “I’d only yell at him.”
Patricia flicked a strand of hair from her eyes. “Would you like a cup of tea?”
“That would be nice, thank you.”
She watched Patricia wash her hands, set the kettle on the stove, and stretch aluminum foil over the tray of chicken. Internally she observed the various strands of her life coalescing and weaving and binding. Her fears, Craig, these people, Talmadge, Jasmine, Keith, her years of study, the books of calculations, even her splintered childhood. She had the sense that she had been on some odd form of pilgrimage, one that had lasted from her parents’ funerals to this moment. It was only now, as she smiled her thanks and accepted the steaming mug, that it made some kind of sense. The knowledge of what she needed to do next was so clear, so vividly simple, Esther knew it was simply the next stage. “There’s another problem I need your advice on,” Esther said. “It has to do with my brother.”
When she finished explaining the situation, the calamitous choice she faced, all three women had stopped work. They stared with a unified expression. Patricia needed a moment to find her voice. “Esther, honey, how long has this been going on?”
“The accident was seven months ago.”
“Why haven’t you told us?”
The truth, so simply asked, left her unable to stop the tears. “It’s how I’ve lived my whole life. Alone.”