Treasures (19 page)

“I’m climbing my mountain,” he said aloud into the quiet room.

Or he might even say that he had already climbed it to the peak. For here he was, established at last in this, his third and final office, the perfect place he had dreamed about. It filled a floor and a half of the building. He had an able staff of forty, not counting secretaries. The business hummed like a dynamo, making money. Every minute, every second, counted, making money. Phones rang, the ticker rolled. Computers wrote, while the bright young men and women conferred at their desks. Oh, these were the exciting eighties,
and Eddy Osborne was at the very center of the excitement!

When he looked out the window, westward to the Trump Tower, southward to Rockefeller Center and the Empire State, eastward to Sutton Place, northward to the Park and the Museum, it resembled a diorama; the gray-white towers were neat miniatures, so that leaving this private oasis to plunge down in the elevator, and emerge onto the pavement into enormity and a cacophony of horns and fire sirens, was total shock. Yet he loved that shock.

This room is marvelous, he thought. Even the Royal Worcester sandwich plate caught the right note. The decorator was a genius; he had read Eddy’s mind. At the demolition of a nineteenth-century hotel downtown, he had salvaged the mahogany paneling that now burnished these walls. It had the warmth of age, with a few dents to validate it, such as one would find in a London club. In such a club, too, the enormous Oriental rug would be richly dark, faded in areas where daylight had touched it for half a century or more. From a corner a tall clock would strike the hours with a rattle and chime; Eddy’s tall clock, bought last year at auction, was an authentic piece out of the seventeen hundreds, and it had cost him almost two hundred thousand dollars. There were, of course, even better specimens to be had; very likely he would get rid of this one sometime and replace it with a better.

His affairs were going well enough, he reflected, to warrant his buying almost anything he might want. Anything at all. Often when he woke up in the middle of the
night, or when suddenly passing a mirror or a plate glass window while hurrying along the street, he felt himself startled by a brief, flashing sense of unreality. Then, feeling the air on his face above the blanket or, as the case might be, feeling the ground firm beneath his shoes, or recognizing his own young face, newly shaved and nicely tanned under his healthy thatch of hair, he admitted the astonishing reality.

He was worth, he calculated, not quite nineteen million dollars, and this after just seven years. His income had reached eleven million a year. The firm’s securities portfolio now topped six billion. And he mused over the old cliché: Nothing succeeds like success. How true it was! His feel for the market had not failed him yet. Even in a rising market there were plenty of investors who, snaillike, got almost nowhere; even in such a market you had to know when and where to move. But the firm’s chief business was still tax shelters, in real estate, oil, cattle, anything to produce losses that would reduce one’s taxable income. That was where the real money lay, in the ability to keep hold of what one had. And that was why people were flocking to Osborne and Company.

He had done quite right, he thought now, to go it alone. Who needed partners with their inevitable disagreements, repetitious consultations, and compromises to slow the action, and drag at you, when you were so able to soar by yourself? What he did need and what he now possessed were quick brains to feed him the information he required, to comprehend his instructions, and to carry them out. He paid high salaries to attract
the brightest MBAs out of Harvard or Wharton. When they did well, he gave a huge bonus, and when they did poorly, they were dismissed. He was demanding, but he was respected for being so.

It still surprised him to be so easily accepted everywhere. To be sure, there were in the world of finance plenty of successful young newcomers with whom the social establishment was ever willing to do business if need be. But it was definitely not willing to accept them in its homes and clubs, while Eddy was invited everywhere.

As if to bear witness to his thought the phone rang.

“Eddy, are you in town tonight? A couple of the fellows are getting together for dinner and backgammon at the Yale Club. Want to join us?”

“Sorry, Doug, I’d like to, but I’m going out to the country. Thanks for thinking of me, though.”

“Then how about Tuesday?”

“Tuesday’s great. I’ll see you around six. Okay?”

Once or twice a week he met with a group at the Yale Club. Swinging into Vanderbilt Avenue, he’d look back at the view up Park; sometimes he’d stand on the corner for a minute, just gazing, feeling the thrill before going on to the game.

Being adept at games, he often came away with a few thousand dollars in winnings, but he was wise enough not to win too often. It was better to be known as a man who lost casually and gave easily. By now he was on the boards of half a dozen philanthropies, all important, all entailing lavish donations, but Eddy, far from begrudging these, actually welcomed making grand gestures.
Even making loans to friends, which he frequently did, made him content with himself. It made him feel in charge.

The tall clock chimed. Calculating swiftly, he allotted his time: an hour to go home, shower, and throw some clothes into a bag, then two hours, if he was lucky, out to Pam’s place. But first came the Friday call to Lara that he never missed. And he reached for the telephone.

When Sue’s treble voice answered, he played the expected game with her.

“Hi. This is Uncle Eddy. Is this you, Davey? No, let me guess. You’re the boy next door.”

There came a giggle and a protest. “Uncle Eddy! You know who it is!”

“Oh, of course. You’re Sue. I should have recognized you by your pink shirt, anyway.”

“Not today! I’m wearing my Snoopy shirt. Can’t you see?”

“I can’t see so well. I left my glasses somewhere.”

Lara’s voice cut in. “My turn, Susie. Uncle Eddy’s probably in a hurry. Hang up, dear.”

“I can’t get over the way that child can kid me right back. She’s got real wit.”

“I know it. And she’s such a joy! To think that in the beginning we were worried that she’d never be happy again!”

“Where are you this minute?”

“Where am I? What do you mean?”

“What room are you in?”

“In the kitchen, getting dinner. Why?”

“Because. I just like to imagine you in the house,
cooking up a storm in that picture-book kitchen or having a crowd in the den on Saturday night.”

He had an instant picture of her standing at the island where the copper pots hung; the last time he had been there, she had a row of African violets up on the windowsill.

“I’m using the barbecue right now. It’s marvelous.”

“Aren’t you glad I made you buy that house?” he demanded. “Don’t you love it?”

“Of course I do. Who wouldn’t?”

And again he felt that glow of pure pleasure, a physical glow that spread, tingling as it rose up into his throat, to end with a chuckle of laughter. Here again he had been “in charge”; because of him Lara and her little family were in the home they deserved, modest as it was. It was not that he had paid for the house; he had not; he had only lent Davey enough for the down payment, a sum that Davey, in the healthy growth of his new prosperity, had already repaid. But the impetus had come from, and the seed had been sown by, Eddy Osborne.

“Is Davey home yet?” he asked now.

“He just came in. He’s upstairs getting the grease from his hands.”

“A new invention in the offing?”

“An instrument for bone surgery. He just came back from seeing an orthopedic man in Cleveland. Here he is. Davey, it’s Eddy.”

“Hi.”

“Hi, Davey! Lara says there’s a new gadget in the works.”

“Well, I hope so. It looks promising, but I can’t tell yet.” That was Davey, prudent and cautious.

“I looked over that copy of your accountant’s report yesterday, and it looks mighty good.”

“Yes, things are going well. The orders keep coming in, and I took in five new men just last week. Even at that we can barely keep up with the work.”

“Do you still not want to talk about investments with me? I can make you rich, Davey, if you let me.”

“Eddy, again I tell you, we’re not interested in what you call ‘being rich.’ ”

“Okay, okay. Some other time. I’m in the usual rush. Kiss Lara and the kid for me. How’s the kid doing?”

“We’ve got ups and downs, but mostly ups, happy ups. We’re all pretty well used to each other by now.”

“That’s great! Give Sue an extra hug from Uncle Eddy.”

When he hung up, he felt good. He always felt good after his call to Ohio, anyway, knowing that Lara was solidly placed for the first time in her life. She would always be secure, with a tidy interest in a steady, flourishing business. Davey could be a typical nineteenth-century small-town manufacturer, he reflected, and thought again: If he would only let me invest for him, I could make him rich. He’s the finest guy in the world, but he’s got a stubborn puritanical streak, and Lara’s the same. Not to want, actually not to want to have money, real money, with all the liberty and power and delight it gave! And Eddy shrugged, smiling to himself at the thought.

A short time later he was in his car, heading toward
the Queens Midtown Tunnel. Halfway there, he changed his mind abruptly and turned up Madison Avenue instead. He hadn’t seen Connie in at least two weeks. It wasn’t five o’clock yet, so he would probably just catch her before closing time.

The little shop took up a narrow slice of space between a large corner store and an art gallery. Its single window contained a mannequin wearing a smart black-and-white knitted suit and a red hat. A life-sized stuffed Dalmatian pulled on a red leash.

“Very clever,” Eddy said as he entered.

Connie was alone in the shop. “What is?”

“The window. Did you design it yourself?”

“Of course not. One hires a window designer.”

“I didn’t know. What does he charge? An arm and a leg, I suppose.”

“Just about. Between the rent here, which will undoubtedly be raised next time around, and the wages for the two salesgirls, I just about break even. You need to sell a lot of handknits to make the expenses. It’s a worry.” Connie sighed.

“Fortunately, you don’t depend on this for a living. And you look wonderful, so the work must agree with you.”

Connie shrugged. He didn’t like to see her like this, disgruntled and abrupt. Besides, since he himself was in a cheerful mood, he wanted her to match him.

“I guess I didn’t tell you that I flew out to Lara’s over the Fourth. She’s got a really nice little kid. Really nice. Or did I tell you?”

“No, you didn’t, Eddy,” she answered, a trifle sharply, he thought.

And he said, “Well, if I didn’t, it was because I didn’t know whether you wanted to hear.”

“Why shouldn’t I want to hear about a child? What can I have against a child?”

“What can you have against Lara for so long?” he countered.

“It seems to me that it’s the other way around.”

“I’m stumped by each of you! She thinks you should have called her to congratulate them on getting Sue. You think—”

“I think that after she accused me of murder and stormed out of my house, the burden is on her. That’s what I think.”

“Oh, I give up,” Eddy said. “It’s beyond me.”

Connie’s expression softened. “Dear Eddy! You do mean well. You always want to straighten things out, don’t you? But some things just won’t be straightened. You don’t think I’m happy about Lara and myself, do you? My only sister … Do you?”

At the break in her voice and the sight of springing tears, he shook his head.

“I shouldn’t have mentioned it again. God knows I never mean to upset you. Lara breaks up, too, whenever I say anything to her, so I’ve stopped. I’m sorry, Con-me.

She kissed his cheek. “It’s okay, Eddy. I’m closing up. Want to have some dinner with me?”

“Thanks, I’m on my way to the country. But I’ll see you on Monday, if you’re free.”

“I’m free. Have a good time, dear.”

It was a fair, cool evening, and the air rushed softly through the open windows of the new gray Mercedes two-seater; he had considered buying a red car, but then had decided that a bright red toy was inconsistent with dignity. Anyway, the car was superb. It responded like a living thing, like a fine horse. As he drove, maneuvering fleetly through the traffic, his mind kept clicking; his mental processes were as finely tuned as was the piece of machinery beneath him.

If only those two would get together again! It wasn’t in his nature to comprehend how pain could be nurtured for so long. They were both anguished, he knew, anguished and angry. The words they had spoken to each other had apparently cut as harshly as knives. It was a pity, a sad, sad pity.

At least, though, he had seen Connie out of a profound slump. At least, now with that sorry divorce out of the way—poor Richard!—she had the boutique to keep her busy. It puzzled him that she wasn’t married yet. She was the marrying kind if any woman ever was. He seemed to remember betting Richard that she would be married within two years at least, but it was already two years, with no one in sight. Connie was critical, of course, and having been burned once, would be more so than ever. Moreover, she had a right to be highly selective; she was a stunning young woman, and she had a brain, a pair of qualities that didn’t always, or even frequently, go together.

Now further thought slid naturally to Eddy’s own most private affair, the Pamela affair. For the last few
weeks he had sensed a growing impatience within himself, a feeling that things had been drifting for too long. What the reason was, or whose fault it might be, if fault there was, was difficult to know, probably because both of them, Pam and he alike, were responsible. Neither had been in a hurry to marry.

Undoubtedly, there was substance in what she always said, that she wanted some years of independence before making a commitment. Good enough. But there were too many attractive men hanging around her.… He both knew it and didn’t want to know it.