Stenman held up her hand and Ayers immediately fell silent. “I am not offering you a job just because my long-time friend and attorney says to,” she said. “If you accept the challenge, then know this: your value as a human being will be measured by how much money you make for my firm, yourself, and me. You must make the necessary sacrifices. That is understood?”
Peter guessed her manner of speaking and accent were Eastern European. He blinked for the first time in a minute. “That’s the American way.” His face turned red over the triteness of his response.
“Indeed. The American way,” agreed Ayers. “Your beginning salary will be minimal—seventy-five thousand— but once you pass your probationary period, in a month, that will increase to a hundred. If you make it through year end, you will be eligible for a bonus.”
Peter doubted he had heard correctly. “Seventy-five thousand
Stenman gave him a harsh look. “That is inadequate?” She had charcoal eyes—cold now but combustible.
“No, no,” Peter said. “Fine. More than fine.”
Peter knew he had failed to hide his shock. Seventy-five K was nearly twice what he’d been pulling-in writing mortgage loans. The thought of a hundred K and a down-the-road-bonus knocked his heart against his backbone.
“Now, Peter,” Ayers said, “about the loan secured against your mother’s house . . .”
Peter mentally switched gears. “The loan? Once I verify income, I can schedule repayment.”
“No,” Ayers said. “Stenman Partners will arrange to pay off the second mortgage—and keep the house from going up for sale. You should be able to handle the original loan on your own. With Morgan’s permission, I’ve already cut a check for fifty thousand dollars. The amount will be deducted from your year-end bonus.”
“Am I dreaming?” Peter asked, looking to Ayers.
“I erase your debts,” Stenman said, “because I do not want my employees’ attention diverted from business. Any other questions?”
“When do I start?” Peter asked, thinking they had way overpaid for him. He would have been happy to work for half what they offered and been satisfied with the annual five percent raises the rest of the world lived with. When you’ve had dose after dose of shit luck, you get used to the smell. He tried not to, but worried there had to be a catch.
“You begin tomorrow. Five-thirty,” Ayers answered. “New York markets open at half past six, but foreign markets trade all night.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Peter sputtered.
“Show up on time and do what it takes
“Dress is smart-casual, Peter.” Ayers chuckled. “Only Martha Stewart knows what that means.”
“You report to Howard Muller—third floor.” As Stenman spoke, obliterating Ayers’ attempt at lightening the mood, Peter’s head jerked back to her. “Now,” she said in a dismissive tone, “I have other matters to discuss with my attorney.”
Ayers guided Peter away with a hand on his elbow. As Peter stepped out, the older man said, “Good luck.”
The office door clicked shut before Peter could respond. He closed his mouth and stumbled across the firm’s main floor, shocked a bombshell hadn’t exploded at the last second and shattered this amazing karma. Before exiting, he glanced toward the corner of the room where he had first seen Kate Ayers. She held a phone to her ear, but mouthed the words to Peter, “Goodbye, see you at seven.”
Peter nodded and drifted down the hallway. At the elevator, he punched the air with his fist in a subdued celebration. What a turnabout, he thought. Seventy-five plus bonus. Going to a hundred if I make it.
“I’ll make it all right,” he swore. “For that kind of money, I’ll learn everything. Do what I’m told. Do whatever it takes.”
Once Peter stepped outdoors, the sun penetrated his clothes and warmed his flesh. The air smelled sweet. The traffic rang vibrant. He now understood what it felt like to be at the center of a universe with all matter revolving around you. It felt exhilarating.
CHAPTER FIVE
BULLY’S RESTAURANT HAS A LOUD BAR AND DECENT STEAKS. At night, it is always crowded, attracting off-track bettors who migrate in as a clique to drink and distort their successes. The place is perpetually nighttime dark, smells of dripping fat, has crisscrossing wood beams, and yet it managed to feel intimate in the half-wall booth where Peter and Kate shared fifteen years of stories.
After several minutes of catch-up, they got around to ordering a bottle of Cabernet. Once the wine arrived, Peter said, “You look great. I can’t believe you’ve grown up into . . . well, into this . . .” He spread his arms, palms upturned in the gesture of a man offering up something special.
“Little ol’ me?” she asked, flapping her eyelids in mock Southern Belle style. “You mean this beautiful, alluring, sexy diva?” Kate smiled, then laughed. The combination represented a pattern both genuine and frequent.
“My thoughts exactly.” Peter put his hand over hers and rubbed. The gesture reminded him of the last time he had seen his mother alive. As they stood in the shadows of the building that morning, he had taken her hand and circled the back with his thumb in an attempt to calm her. In a reflex, Peter abruptly withdrew his hand from Kate’s.
“Did I do something?” she asked.
He exhaled deeply and regretted the sudden melancholy, but his emotions had just caromed around a place he found difficult to escape. Peter wondered if his mother had seen Kate at any time over the years. And did Kate suspect her father and his mother had once been intimate?
“Did you . . .” He wanted to ask, but if she didn’t know about the affair, wouldn’t it be better to keep it buried?
She reached across and covered his hand. Her flesh felt comforting.
“Did you ever see my mom, these last few years? Since our families stopped being social friends, I mean.” He stared, vainly searching for clues.
“A couple of times at the office. I meant to say something—how sorry I was, but I didn’t know how you’d react.” The wet sheen over Kate’s eyes built into droplets that she wiped away. “Father says he worshiped your parents. And even though your father broke off their friendship those last few years, Father never stopped admiring him.”
“Jason’s been a good friend.”
They worked their way through the painful conversation and by the time dinner arrived, they were back to sharing happier thoughts. Later, just after Kate paid the check, Peter said, “I’ll repay you for dinner once I get my first paycheck.”
“Not so fast,” Kate said. “I don’t want your money. What I want is for you to reciprocate. You can buy
“Sounds good. I’ll call.”
She wagged her head. “When a guy says he’ll call, it’s a blow-off. I’m not letting you off so easily. Your paydays are the fifteenth and the last day of each month. Next Tuesday you are once again solvent.”
“You know what day I get paid?”
“I told you: Father and Morgan have a relationship that goes way back. Our firm has a department that handles payroll for many of our clients, including Stenman Partners. We do most of their paperwork, banking, even some client billing. When I heard you got the job, I peeked at some of their records. Don’t tell anybody, but I know Father’s computer password and user name. If they found out, they’d change the entire system. Supposedly impenetrable.”
“Then how did you tap into the thing?”
“I was doing some work at home, over a weekend. Father was having a hard time—I think it was the
