hear your voice.”
“You’re not fine,” Wilson said, his voiced raised. “You were just threatened at gunpoint.”
“Wilson. I promise you, I’m fine. I’ll finish packing in the morning. My plane gets in at two-United 1011.”
“I hate bringing you into this nightmare.”
“I want to be with you.”
“I love you, Em. More than words…”
“I’ll be there in less than fourteen hours, then you can show me,” she said playfully. “I adore you, Wilson. Please be careful.”
How could I have been so stupid to risk losing her? he asked himself. “I’ll be there waiting.”
After saying good-bye, Emily felt relieved, though the fear that had gripped her in the lobby continued to linger. Nothing mattered more than her relationship with Wilson, no matter how difficult or dangerous his circumstances had become.
18
Wilson — Cambridge, MA
Wilson found his mother in the backyard with the gardener, preparing for spring planting. It was an unusually warm and sunny morning for late March in Boston. He watched her from the verandah. The sun highlighted the copper undertones in her short brown hair, making her seem more youthful than usual. From her outfit-sandals, Capri jeans, and a bright pink jacket over a floral top-she seemed eager for the newness of spring. Wilson was glad to see her up and active.
He reminisced a moment about her motherly tenderness. She had always been there for him, attending to his every need. Regrettably, he’d grown up like most children, more or less oblivious to her personal aspirations and dreams outside of being a wife and mother. In the years after Wilson left home for college, she’d become more introspective. But he’d made no serious effort to find out why. Now he wondered whether it had something to do with his father’s business activities. Wilson needed to find out, and she was the only one who could tell him. He walked out into the spacious yard, still unnoticed.
“Good morning,” he called out as he got closer.
“Hi, dear, did you get some rest? You got in so late,” she said, looking at him with warm but strained eyes. “Anita said Emily called. Is everything okay?”
There could be no more holding back, he thought. “I talked to her last night when I got home,” he said before hesitantly proceeding. “She was threatened at gunpoint in the lobby of her apartment building. She received the same message you did.”
“Oh no!” she said, horrified. “Did he do anything to her?”
“No, he didn’t touch her. But the emotional trauma that both of you have suffered is unforgiveable.”
“She needs to be here with you, Wilson.”
“I’m picking her up at the airport this afternoon.”
“Thank God,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears began filling her eyes; she turned toward the verandah. “I can’t believe all this is happening. When is it going to end?”
Wilson took her arm and they walked to the house. He loathed the idea of subjecting her to an inquisition of kinds, but he had no choice. “I’m sorry Mother, but I need to ask you some questions.”
As their eyes fused he could see her grief. There was a prolonged silence before she finally said, “About your father?”
“Yes.”
“I may not have the answers you want,” she said, removing the gloves from her hands and setting them on the slate stone verandah. “Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.
Once inside the belfry library with the door closed and the nullifier on, they sat down at the round table. Wilson began, “Why did he change his will?”
“He called it a prudent update of our legal affairs, since I had no interest in being involved in any business decisions. I knew he was trying to protect me, but that wasn’t the only reason.”
Wilson sat back studying his mother. “Mom, I need to know everything. No more secrets.”
Tears welled up in her eyes again and began to trickle down her cheeks. She reached for his hand. “Just give me a minute, I’ll be fine.”
Wilson took her hand in his. Dressing down CEOs was child’s play compared to this.
She wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief from her jacket pocket. “Okay,” she said.
Wilson took a deep breath. “Did you know that his net worth is over seventy billion dollars?”
“Yes,” she said evenly, without a hint of surprise.
Wilson wrestled with whether to show her the letter his father had left him. He decided against it for now. He reached into his pocket, removing the folded copies he’d made of the press clippings on Congressman McFadden and the pages about his great-grandfather’s death. He handed them to her.
His mother took a few moments to study the copies before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. She sighed before opening her eyes again, then in a monotone voice she said, “Before your grandfather died, he regretted sharing this with your father.”
“Why?” Wilson asked, remembering little about his grandfather, who’d died when he was six years old. All he could recall was that he had been kind and gentle and went by the name of Wilson.
“Your father was determined to become a writer when he was younger, but his father insisted that he begin presiding over the family’s assets and businesses,” she said calmly, but her eyes were intense and roaming. She held up the copies of press clippings and journal pages he’d given her. “He used this to convince your father. When he learned that his grandfather had been murdered by the same people who killed McFadden and Boyles, he vowed to change everything. He made drastic changes in the family business, growing it exponentially. He was a natural, as if born to it…” Her voice trailed off.
Wilson remained silent, waiting for his mother to resume her story.
“When your grandfather was near death, suffering from leukemia, he forced a public stock offering of Fielder Industries, which controlled the family’s major businesses. He’d hoped your father would sell his shares and return to a literary life. He asked me more than once to forgive him for taking your father away from a more tranquil existence. He was afraid your father would waste his entire life pursuing wealth and seeking revenge,” she said, her words becoming more emotion-filled. “I shared the same fear, but by then it was too late. After quadrupling the profits of Fielder Industries in less than two years, your father realized that his business savvy offered him a better way to change the world. When his father died, Charles did sell his shares in Fielder Industries, but he didn’t return to a literary life. He started Fielder amp; Company.”
“Why didn’t we talk about this when I was growing up?” Wilson asked, leaning forward perplexed.
“Because of his experience with his own father,” she said, her eyes were gentle, sympathetic. “He was a lot like you growing up-rebellious and easily upset over any form of injustice or inequity. He swore he’d never coerce you the way his father had coerced him. The irony is that you still chose business as a career, driven by his same desires to cleanse a corrupt system.”
“I can’t believe we never talked about this…”
“We did. All the time. Especially you and your father, only without the family history,” she said, looking away wistfully. “He didn’t want you to become burdened like he was.”
“Burdened because of Harry’s murder?” Wilson asked, burying his hurt over being shut out of family secrets.
His mother shifted her gaze to the ocular window overlooking Cambridge Common. “When your father began assuming the reins at Fielder Industries and started attending business school, his resentment and bitterness changed him. The passion he once had for writing evolved into an obsession for creating wealth. It was all he talked about. He felt more and more responsible for correcting the inequities in society-just like you.”
“So he didn’t tell me about my great-grandfather to keep me from making the same vow?” Wilson said sarcastically.
“Your father gave his life to this obsession. Neither one of us wanted the same thing happening to you.”
