Oliver's Story

'That's sort of it,' she said.

I wanted to say more. Like, Hey, you're really beautiful. You're bright. You've got a thousand qualities that any guy would groove on. But I couldn't. Yet.

Someone had to make some kind of move. And so I did.

'Let's get out of here,' I said.

She nodded, rummaged in her top desk drawer, withdrew ai key. And tossed it to me.

'It's downstairs,' she said.

'You mean I get to drive?' said I, agreeably amazed. She smiled and nodded yes.

'But please be careful, Oliver. My instrument is no less delicate than yours.'

 

I'd vaguely read about it several years ago. The sudden death of founding father Walter Binnendale.

How he'd bequeathed his great eleven-city kingdom to a daughter who was then ridiculously young.

Once upon a time there'd been an older brother. But as racing fans recall, in 1965 'Bin' Binnendale spun off the track and crashed at Zandvoort, only seconds after overtaking Boissier for the lead. Hence Marcie had become the only heir. Knowledgeable press reports suggested that the little girl would sell the stores as soon as possible and live the life a golden heiress should. Instead, this twenty-four-year-old thought she would dabble in tycooning and took over Daddy's job.

The experts smiled. Her 'leadership' would surely bring the chain to rapid ruin. And yet it didn't tumble all that quickly. Two years later, Binnendale's proposed expansion to the West. Again, the trade dismissed it as an adolescent folly. By the time they opened in Los Angeles (branch seventeen), their stock had doubled. Maybe it was just dumb luck, but those now smiling did so to her face.

Now and then I'd come across some tiny notice of the Binnendale financial progress. When her name appeared at all, the president was mentioned inconspicuously. Never did they print her picture. Never did the social pages trumpet her activities. 'People' columns did not chronicle her marriage. None reported her divorce. Such anonymity is near umpossible when you're among the richest people in the country. Not to mention blond and beautiful. It therefore came as no surprise to learn that Marcie paid an agency to keep the press away.

This and other tidbits were imparted to me as I drove her white Mercedes northward on the Merritt Parkway. First I'd used her telephone to cancel Dr London. Then she called her office to say 'Screw my afternoon appointments' (in so many words). Finally, I yanked the plug out.

Marcie smiled benignly as I wilfully destroyed her private property.

'For some unfathomable reason, Oliver, I like you. But you are impossibly impulsive.'

'You're not too possible yourself,' I answered. 'Think of all the grief you could have spared us if you'd only said right on the track, 'My name is Binnendale.' I would have said, 'So what? That's not as fascinating as your ass.''

A certain luminescence in her eyes said she believed me.

'Look, Oliver, I know I'm slightly paranoid. But just remember I've been hurt.'

'Just what exactly did your husband do?'

'To me? To other girls? Please be specific'

'What's he doing now, for instance?'

'Nothing.'

'Nothing?'

'Well, let's put it this way: he is very … 'settled down'.' Her tone was strange. She couldn't possibly have meant what I imagined.

'Marce, you don't imply you had to … pay him?'

'No,' she said, 'I don't imply. I state. He's now a wealthy divorce.'

I was astounded. How could Marcie of all people have been so amazingly faked out?

I didn't ask. She wanted me to hear.

'Look,' she said, 'I was a college senior, wondering just what the hell my role in life would be.

Then — presto! Enter this extremely charismatic, very handsome guy … '

I wished she hadn't emphasized his looks.

' … who told me all the things I wanted to believe.' She paused.

'I was a kid,' she said. 'I fell incredibly in love.'

'And then?'

'Well, Father was still hoping to get Bin to take his helmet off and join the business. Naturally, my brother just accelerated in the opposite direction. So when suddenly I show up with my flashy boyfriend, Father absolutely flipped. He thought Mike was Jesus Christ and Einstein — only with a neater haircut! I mean, even if I'd wanted to, I couldn't have cast doubts on Michael's sheer perfection. Anyway, I think my father loved me most when I delivered this terrific second son. At the wedding I was half expecting him to say, 'I do.' '

'But how did Bin react?'

'Oh, it was loathing at first sight. They hated one another. Bin kept telling me that Michael was 'a barracuda in a J. Press suit'.'

'Which, I take it, he turned out to be.'

'Well, that's a bit unkind. I mean to barracudas.'

She had clearly tried these bitter jokes before. And failed to make the situation anything but sad.

'But what exactly made you ultimately split?' I asked.

'Michael didn't like me.'

Marcie tried to speak as if it didn't hurt.

'What specifically?'

'I think he realized that much as Walter liked him, Bin would someday just show up and be the boss. Since Michael wasn't born to be an understudy, he just threw the towel in.'

'Too bad,' I tried to quip.

'Yeah. If only he had waited five more months … ' Her narrative now ended. With no further comment. Even without wishing Michael Nash would rot in hell.

I had no notion what to say ('Gee, sorry you got screwed'?) And so I simply drove. We listened to an eight- track Joan Baez.

And then a thought occurred to me.

'Hey, Marcie, what exactly made you think I might be different?'

'Nothing. I just hoped you would be.'

Then she touched my arm, inducing a most pleasant physical sensation in my spine as well.

Things were progressing from the purely spiritual. So let's have a full disclosure.

'Marcie, have you ever given any thought to my last name?'

'No. Should I have?' And then it dawned on her.

'Barrett … the investment bank? The mills? Is that your family?'

'A distant relative,' I said. 'My father.'

We rode in silence for a while. Then she said quietly, 'I didn't know.' Which, I confess, made me feel good.

On we drove, into the velvet darkness of New England.

Not that I was stalling. Merely looking for a really special place.

'I think we need a fire, Marce.'

'Yes, Oliver.'

It took us till Vermont to find the perfect setting. Uncle Abner's Cabins. On a little lake called Kenawaukee. Sixteen-fifty for the night. Including firewood. The nearest place for dining was a local bistro down the road. Called