‘I’ll leave you in peace to say your Office,’ he said matter-of-factly.
‘Oh! You know about the Office. Not many do now.’ Father McDaid looked surprised.
‘I was an altar boy once. Take care of yourself, Father.’
‘Thank you . . . and eh . . . again my apologies for upsetting you.’
‘And if I upset you, I too apologize,’ Jonathan said gravely.
‘Good afternoon, my son.’ The priest gave a slight bow and resumed his walk along the pathway, shoulders bowed. Jonathan watched as he walked out of the iron gates and down the narrow country road. A life ruined by abuse and religion, and a mother whose cruelty was as abusive in the damage it caused as was his uncle’s, Jonathan reflected, walking back to water the flowerpots on his father’s grave.
‘Jonathan,’ he heard Nancy call him as she made her way through the swing gate. His heart lifted at the sight of her tip-tapping her way along the stone-edged path with her elegant silver-topped walking stick.
‘Did I tell you today that you are the best mother in the whole wide world?’ He hugged her.
‘You didn’t,’ said Nancy spiritedly. ‘You’d better tell me.’
‘Well you are,’ he said. ‘Not only in the world, but in the entire universe.’
‘That’s more like it,’ Nancy said smugly, patting her husband’s headstone.
‘Yes, Mother!’ Jonathan grinned.
‘And of course you know you’re the best son.’
‘I know that but you can tell me again,’ Jonathan teased. And their laughter was an added blessing as the sun shone on Rosslara’s tranquil graveyard.
‘I wonder will he come to you, Hannah? Was that the reason I met him in the graveyard at Gus Higgins’s grave?’ Jonathan remarked to his counsellor the next time he had an appointment with her.
‘He hasn’t made contact yet. But that’s neither here nor there. It’s all about Divine Timing, isn’t it?’ Hannah lit a candle before they began their session.
‘It was the weirdest thing, though. Right at that grave, of all the graves in the graveyard. It still gives me the shivers thinking about it.’ Jonathan shook his head.
‘Perhaps Gus was trying to make amends from beyond the vale of forgetting,’ Hannah suggested with a smile.
‘Hannah, once I would have argued with you,’ Jonathan said sombrely, ‘but the longer I live, and the more I see the synchronicities you talk about, the more I believe there is a much bigger picture to our lives that we just cannot see or fathom. But the next time I come back, if I come back, I’m taking a much easier path, I can tell you.’
‘And I’m coming back as Hugh Jackman’s wife,’ Hannah said with a wicked glint in her vivid blue eyes, chuckling at Jonathan’s hearty guffaws.
C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY
-F
OUR
December 2008
‘It has been alleged that Madoff was operating a giant Ponzi scheme, which may prove to be one of the largest financial frauds in US history.’ Des listened in dismay to the reporter who was covering the shocking arrest of the prominent financier he had been in awe off. He switched off the TV and put his head in his hands. He had initially invested two hundred grand with Madoff, two years previously, and the returns had been so good he’d invested half the money made from the sale of the Florida properties. Colette thought he’d invested it all in commodities. She would go freaking bananas if she knew what he’d done. And so would his bank manager.
He rubbed his hand over his jaw. He needed to take drastic measures to cover his losses. If he could pull it off they’d ride out the storm. Des picked up the phone on his desk. ‘Get me Ivan Baransky in Chase, in the Plaza,’ he instructed his secretary, taken aback that his palms were actually damp with perspiration and his heart was hammering in his chest.
Two hours later, his secretary glided into his office with a sealed white padded envelope. ‘Mr Baransky had this couriered over for you,’ she said, laying it on the desk.
‘Thank you, Lauren. Just give me fifteen with no calls please,’ he said crisply, opening the envelope.
‘Sure.’ She flashed a gleaming smile and left him to his document.
Twenty minutes later he dialled Colette’s cell phone. ‘Babes, any chance you could drop by? I need your signature on a document to transfer some shares to another portfolio.’
‘Aww, Des, I’m going Upstate to view Clara Alton Graham’s art collection. She’s having to sell. You know her husband committed suicide after Lehman Brothers?’ Colette protested.
‘It won’t take five minutes, a quick detour, and then you can take the George Washington at Exit 14. I’ll send a car for you so you won’t have to drive if you like,’ he wheedled.
‘Tsk! OK then. That sounds good, and if we get the collection I’ll bring you to dinner in Boulud’s. I hear that new executive chef Kaysen is pretty hot,’ Colette promised, thrilled that she didn’t have to drive the six-hour round trip to Saratoga Springs. Before the downturn she wouldn’t have hesitated to take a Town Car and put it on expenses, but times had changed and the budget for running the New York office was a lot tighter. The financial director in Dickon and Austen’s went through her expense sheet with a fine toothcomb these days.
‘Deal,’ Des agreed, and she knew he was smiling.
Colette dressed discreetly for her meeting with Clara. A Chanel suit, a single strand of pearls and low-heeled pumps. Clara was a small, birdlike woman; she didn’t want to tower over her. The Alton Grahams were old school and old money. Highly placed on the social register. But like many of their kind, they had fallen on hard times. Dickon and Austen’s would be the perfect home for Clara’s very valuable collection and Colette would get
