The Girl From Home (10 page)

“You're a prince,” Solomon says.

“Damn right I am,” Jonathan replies.

Then he hangs up without saying good-bye. Goddammit, he's almost there.

*  *  *

Jonathan calls three more investors, but none of them are as gullible as Norm Solomon or as rich as Isaac Goldenberg. There are still others Jonathan could ask to put up the last fifty million, but he assumes that he'll get the same excuses—timing issues, liquidity problems, taxes, blah-blah-blah. Besides, the more people who know he's trying to raise cash fast, the greater the risk.

At twelve thirty, he and Haresh Venagopul are once again in the men's room. Like before, Jonathan checks the stalls and turns on the water before he says a word.

“You know, people are going to start talking about us if we keep meeting like this,” Haresh says.

Jonathan ignores the quip. “I've got two hundred million. Now I just need you to look the other way so I can get the last fifty.”

Haresh is obviously pained by the suggestion. He should be. Jonathan is asking him to aid and abet in securities fraud. A felony punishable by prison time.

“What's the long-term strategy here?” Haresh asks. “I mean, why put your head—I should say
our
heads—on the chopping block to get this first round over and done with when our heads are definitely going to get lopped off when you miss the second payment in thirty days?”

“You know as well as I do that thirty days is an eternity in this business. If the market moves in our direction, all my problems are solved.”

“That sounds more like a prayer than a plan, Jonathan.”

“I have no other option, Haresh.”

Haresh nods. He's too much of a gentleman to remind Jonathan that there is another option. The correct one: admit defeat and face the consequences.

“Okay,” Haresh says. “If you mark the position to show steady profit, and do it slowly so as not to raise any flags, and if you can get the fund's NAV up fifty or sixty million by next Monday, then I can loosen up fifty million in borrowing power, and I'll pretend I didn't notice that our net asset value is inflated.”

Jonathan puts his hand on Haresh's shoulder. “Thanks, Haresh. I really owe you.”

Haresh looks at him askew. “Don't thank me yet. Compliance might still see it on their own.”

This is a risk Jonathan is willing to take. The folks in Compliance don't understand the first thing about his trading, and even if they did know enough to ask a question, he could talk circles around them. It was Haresh's support he needed, and now he had it.

“No, really. I owe you, big-time, for this,” Jonathan says.

“Uh-huh. Just understand that I don't want you repaying me with cigarettes when we have adjoining cells in prison.”

E
ast Carlisle, New Jersey, is not known for its fine dining. Its neighbor to the west, which for some reason is called New Carlisle rather than West Carlisle, is a college town, so what passes as good food in this area of the state is located there. The best of a mediocre lot is the Château, or at least it was back when Jonathan called East Carlisle home. The kind of place reserved for anniversaries and Valentine's Day, or when you are trying to impress the prettiest girl from your high school after twenty-five years.

In recognition of the season, a large Christmas tree is beside the door, a smaller menorah beside it, and a framed poster advertising the restaurant's New Year's Eve extravaganza—a hundred dollars for seven courses and all the champagne you can drink. In Manhattan, the same prix fixe would be a grand, maybe more. The poster also proudly proclaims that the musical accompaniment will be provided by Lou Cross and Cathedral. Jonathan tries to recall whether that was the band that ginker Pauley DiGiacomo referenced at the reunion, but he can't remember.

The lunchtime crowd is sparse, comprised mainly of men who Jonathan speculates must be businessmen by virtue of the fact that they're wearing ties, even though none are in full suits. There are two tables of women in the back who appear to be well into their sixties, and Jonathan tries to imagine what event brings together a group of that age. A birthday party, maybe?

All thoughts leave his head when he sees Jackie, however. She's seated next to the window, the sun streaming through, backlighting her to angelic effect. That she's wearing a white silk top reinforces the point. It strains against her perfect breasts, exposing the outline of her bra. Twenty-five years later, and he's still imagining whether Jacqueline Lawson's bra is lace. Some dreams never die, apparently.

“Hey there,” she says, getting up. She kisses Jonathan lightly on the cheek, and he breathes in her scent.

When he met Natasha, Jonathan thought she might just be the most beautiful woman he had ever seen, but even then his hesitation was due to his recollection of the teenage Jacqueline Lawson. Sitting beside Jackie now, he knows that Natasha would turn more heads—after all, a fifteen-year age gap is too much for any fortysomething woman to overcome, no matter how beautiful. Still, Jonathan doubts that Natasha will look this damn good at forty-three.

“I haven't been here since . . . wow, forever.” Jackie laughs.

“I gather the Château isn't the in-spot anymore. Had I known, I would have picked someplace else.”

“Oh, it's not that. I . . . I guess I just don't go out much anymore.”

Jonathan hears some sadness in the disclosure, a trace of marital discord. Jackie Lawson must feel she's being taken for granted by her husband, which Jonathan considers a very good thing for him.

The waitress asks whether there's anything they want to drink, but they give her their full orders. For Jackie that's a glass of white wine and a salad Niçoise, and Jonathan selects the old standby of a burger and a beer.

“I'm so glad that you reached out to me,” Jackie says when the waitress leaves. “To be honest, I wasn't exactly sure what to make of our little conversation the other night, and there was a part of me afterward that thought maybe I'd imagined it. So, when you texted, at least it confirmed that I'm not going completely insane.”

Jonathan can tell she's nervous. Her eyes dart all around the restaurant and seem particularly attuned to the front door. He understands her concern, of course. If anyone saw her with a male stranger, word would get back to her husband.

He sees her paranoia as yet another hopeful sign. It means she hasn't told Rick that she's here, and that suggests she's thinking that this may lead somewhere. Same as he is.

“Didn't you tell me at the reunion that this was
my
fantasy?” he says with a laugh. “Why then would you imagine it? Is it every prom queen's dream to have dinner with the king of the high school nerds after twenty-five years?”

“Now you're just fishing, Johnny . . . I mean, Jonathan. I know you've done very well for yourself. International man of mystery, as it were. There was talk at the reunion that reminded me of that scene in
The Great Gatsby
. You know, when the party guests are speculating as to how Gatsby earned his fortune.”

“Did anyone think I was a bootlegger?”

She laughs. “No, but I did hear a lot of different theories. So, why don't you tell me the truth?”

The truth. No, Jonathan's not going there. That's for damn sure.

“I'm an arbitrageur,” Jonathan says matter-of-factly, although he knows that will prompt her to request further clarification.

Which she does, right on cue. “And that means what, exactly?”

This gives Jonathan license to launch into the cocktail-party explanation he's used a thousand times before. “It's a fancy term for saying that I'm a money manager. My fund invests in different currencies. Rubles. Dollars. The euro. This is obviously an oversimplification, but remember the transitive property from third-grade math? If a dollar equals two euros, and two euros equals three rubles, then three rubles should equal one dollar, right? Well, in the financial markets, it's usually off a bit, so two-point-nine rubles will equal one dollar. They have to come into alignment at some point, and so I invest heavily on that event happening. It doesn't matter how the alignment occurs—if the dollar goes down or the ruble goes up; so long as the alignment happens—which it always will eventually—my fund makes money.”

“Sounds to me like you're a professional romantic,” she says. “Investing in the belief that the world will return to the way it's supposed to be.”

Jonathan is impressed. “I never thought of it that way. Huh. I may just have to change my business card now.”

She smiles, and Jonathan feels the full force of Jackie's power. It's as if he is basking in a warm, bright sun. He can't believe that he's actually sharing a table with Jacqueline Lawson. The It Girl of East Carlisle High School, class of 1991. The girl every boy wanted to have and every girl wanted to be.

“And how about you?” he asks. “Bring me up to speed with how the last couple of decades have treated Jacqueline Lawson Williams.”

She smiles again, but this time it's as if it emanates from a different person altogether. It tells Jonathan more than words ever could that the past twenty-five years have not treated Jackie kindly.

“Well, my psychology degree turned out to be exactly the waste of forty thousand dollars that my father had predicted,” she begins. “I was accepted to a few master's programs, and the plan was to become a child psychologist, but my dad died, which made grad school beyond my budget, and Rick wanted to get married and . . . I know, it's the old story . . . but I have two beautiful children. They're both students at good ol' ECHS. Robert is a senior and the quarterback of the Bears, and Emma is my baby. She's a freshman, although she prefers the term
freshperson
.”

Jackie forces one last smile. It's the saddest Jonathan's ever seen on Jacqueline Lawson. “So tell me about your wife,” she says.

“Her name is Natasha. She's Russian by birth, but has been living in the States since she was around five. Grew up in Texas, of all places, but went to college and grad school on the East Coast. Tall, blonde, blue-eyed.” He shrugs.

“I hate her already.” Jackie laughs.

“And I'm slightly embarrassed to say I'm nothing if not a cliché.” He gives her a sheepish grin. “She's young, too. Twenty-eight.”

“Now I really hate her.”

Jackie says this with her old smile back in place. It tells Jonathan that despite her words, she doesn't perceive Natasha as a threat.

The food arrives, and the waitress asks whether they'd like another round of drinks. Jackie says, “I'm game if you are,” and Jonathan quickly agrees. The wine has seemingly relaxed Jackie. She's no longer looking toward the door each time a new diner arrives.

Their banter is easy, and more than a little flirtatious. Jackie's certainly making all the right body movements—the flip of her hair, the soft laughter at his jokes, the light touches of his arm when she speaks. Jonathan wonders how far she's going to let this go, and he's come to the conclusion that the sky's the limit.

When the check comes, Jonathan grabs it.

“We should split it,” Jackie says.

“No. I asked, so I pay. If you ask the next time, then you can pay.”

Jackie doesn't hesitate. “How about Wednesday night? Rick plays poker and he's usually out late.”

“Perfect,” Jonathan says.

He waits a beat, then decides to throw caution to the wind. “Hey . . . crazy thought here. Would you mind terribly . . . if I cooked for you? The only reason I bring that up is that you seem a little nervous about being out in public.”

Jackie's slow to answer, and Jonathan is tempted to withdraw the offer, or reiterate that his intentions are strictly honorable. But he tells himself to wait, to trust his judgment. How many times on the trading floor had others been yelling for them to sell or they'd lose their shirts, and he had held it together knowing that the position would hit? It was the same thing here. He had read Jackie correctly. He knew it. She wasn't concerned about his intentions; she welcomed them.

“Honestly, that would be . . . really wonderful,” she says. “Thank you.”

And then she gives him a smile to die for.

*  *  *

After they say good-bye with another exchange of cheek kisses, Jonathan heads to Lakeview for his daily visit with his father. He greets Yorlene by name and asks how she's been before segueing to inquiring about his father's condition.

“He was very talkative this morning,” Yorlene says. “I really think your presence has been therapeutic for him. He seems . . . happier, I think.”

“How can you tell?” Jonathan says. “I mean, the happier part?”

“Because he's smiling, which he didn't do much when he first got here.”

“Yeah, well, he didn't do it much my whole life,” Jonathan remarks.

Yorlene's smile vanishes, her way of telling Jonathan that she doesn't approve of his disrespecting his father. “Well . . . he's smiling now. Go see for yourself.”

William Caine is sleeping when Jonathan enters his room. He looks more disheveled than in prior days, something akin to a homeless man; Jonathan realizes that's because Dad's sporting a few days of gray beard stubble. It prompts Jonathan to consider other personal hygiene issues, so he checks his father's fingernails and satisfies himself that he's being reasonably groomed.

“Can I ask how often is he bathed and shaved?” Jonathan asks Yorlene when he comes back into the hallway.

“Every three days,” Yorlene says. “It should have been done today, but . . . perhaps they were running late or something. I'll make sure it happens tomorrow. Don't worry.”

“Thanks. And does he get any exercise? So far, I've just seen him in bed.”