Words Unspoken (24 page)

“His money? Do you mean they had lots of
money
?”

“Oh, they were well off, believe me. They must have inherited money from both sets of parents. I mean, think about it, Janelle. Sure, they live in that old Victorian piece of crumbling junk, but they have antiques, they have gorgeous china, silver, real oil paintings. Where do you think it came from? A driving school? There must have been family money.

“Anyway, apparently Daddy was devastated to have lost us. He started drinking even more and lost his job and decided to reform.”

“He lost his job? What was his job, Katy?”

“I don’t know. I was just a little brat. But whatever it was, he was good at it and made plenty of money. Then, according to Mother, he up and quit—or got fired, is my guess—and stopped partying, stopped drinking, and set out to find Mother and me. From what Mother says, it took him almost a year—looking all around North America. And in the meantime, he’d gotten religious.”

“Religious?”

“Yeah, they were the best of pagans before that. Great pagans!”

“Why didn’t they ever tell me any of this?” She said it out loud, but more to herself than to Katy Lynn.

“I guess the truth was a little too dark for you—or so they thought. I was four or five when they split and almost eight when they finally got back together. And by the time you came along, they were this really conservative, holier-than-thou couple who never took a drink of liquor and hated parties and forced us to go to church every time the doors opened. My life completely changed.” She fished for a cigarette in her purse and lit it.

“You can say that Daddy started over and made a better life, but as far as I was concerned, there was way too much to forgive him for, and I couldn’t do it. He screwed up my childhood, and by the time things got back together, well, I just didn’t buy it. And you were the favorite—the baby conceived of their true love and religious awakening. It all sickened me. That’s all.”

“I didn’t know,” Janelle said, almost under her breath. Why hadn’t her parents ever told her the whole story? Wouldn’t their change be all the more believable and moving if they had given her the details of their former lifestyle, their separation, their reconciliation?

“And you know what, Janelle, I always loved the parties. Not the drinking and the screaming afterward, but the parties! Oh, it was like
The Great Gatsby
, I tell you, and I got to wear the most gorgeous littlegirl dresses and parade around. I loved that part. So when they traded that in for an old Victorian house that was falling apart, and left the highbrows of the East to move to Hickville, I hated it all. I knew what kind of life I wanted. It had nothing to do with the life they reinvented. Not a thing.” She sucked in on the cigarette. “Mother and Daddy aren’t as squeaky clean as you imagine, Janelle. In fact, as far as I’m concerned, they qualify as some of the biggest hypocrites on the planet, that’s what I say.”

“I didn’t know,” Janelle repeated.

“Oh, quit saying that! I realize that. They should have told you. I guess they were just too intent on making a good impression, on protecting the younger child, on protecting their religious reputation.”

“That just doesn’t sound like them.”

“Janelle, don’t worry. I don’t expect you to change sides—you’ve always agreed with them. I’m just giving you my version of the story. I’m not here to get any brainwashing or counseling. I’m just here to get away.” She tossed the cigarette on the cobblestones of
centre ville
and crushed it out with her sapphire blue shoe.

Janelle sat by the stone marker of Josh’s grave, picking off the wilted blooms of the geraniums. She absentmindedly brushed her fingers over the stone, letting them slip into the carved indentations.

Joshua Brian Johnson

Beloved child, gift of God

August 3, 1982–September 16, 1985

Three short years. A breath, a flutter.

Her next thought surprised her: Katy Lynn at three years old, floating through extravagant parties in the East. Then Katy Lynn at five, following her mother,
their
mother, across North America, spending her father’s money. Janelle tried to recall conversations that hinted at this unknown past. She could think of only happy memories:

Sitting on her father’s lap, playing with a doll.

“What is your favorite place in the world, Daddy?”

“Right here with you, Nelli. Right here with you.”

“In the big white house with the wapawound porch?”

“Yes, the big white house with the wraparound porch.”

“Did you ever live anywhere else, Daddy?”

“Oh, sure. Long ago I lived far, far away.”

“Where is far, far away, Daddy?”

“It’s a place I don’t ever want to go back to, little Nelli. I like it here with you.”

Janelle wanted to make a phone call to her parents and ask them all the questions in her heart. Perhaps Brian was right. Once she got rid of Katy Lynn, she’d make her plans to see Mom and Dad. Back there, in the shadow of Lookout Mountain, she could ask her questions. Another thing to grieve—her parents’ past that she had never known about.

Go home.

Katy Lynn was taking a nap, the kids were still at school, Brian was at the office. In the silence of the late afternoon, Janelle took out a blue aerogram and began to write:

Dear Mom and Dad,

I don’t quite know how to begin. Katy Lynn is here visiting with us.
She called out of the blue, asked to come alone, and showed up on our doorstep one week later.

As you can imagine, this was a huge surprise, and one I wasn’t ready for. Granted, we’ve invited her to come with Hamilton numerous times, but I think I was always relieved when she turned us down. This visit has proven my assumptions true. She doesn’t have a clue about our work, doesn’t care, and is still the self-centered sister I’ve always known.

Then yesterday, she suddenly began sharing things about her past, things of your past before I was born, things I had never heard before.
Troubling things. And I wondered why you had never mentioned these things to me. I don’t want to discuss this in a letter. Brian had already suggested that I come back for a month-long visit, a time to get away, see the counselor again. He’s worried about my depression. I might as well say the word. Depression.

So could I stay with you? Katy is supposed to leave in a week. Then I’ll stay here until the end of October to get the kids back on a normal schedule. But after that, in early November, could I come?

I love you both. I am just confused. Very confused. I hope you won’t worry. Just pray. Pray.

Janelle stopped by the post office on the way to pick up Luke and Sandy at school and mailed the letter. She watched the light blue rectangle slide into the slot on the yellow postbox marked
Etranger
. And as it disappeared out of view, she wondered to herself,
What have I done?

________

With a sigh Ted ran his hand through his thick hair, leaned back in the swivel chair, placed his fingers together, and thought. The last thing he needed right now was to have Jerry Steinman worried about the crazy novelist’s account. He hoped their conversation had placated Jerry’s concern. Of course he had said nothing to anyone about the foundation. It irked him that Jerry would even suggest such a thing.

He didn’t have time for this; he had worries of his own. Goldberg, Finch and Dodge was a well-respected, fairly large regional brokerage firm, mainly in the southeast. They were known for their research particularly on southeastern companies. The firm received plenty of old Atlanta money from its investors, whose source of wealth came from Coca-Cola, Genuine Parts, and Trust Company of Georgia. Goldberg, Finch and Dodge would weather any storm.

But he had to admit that a storm was definitely brewing in the market. Even though the market had shown amazing economic growth over the past five years, shady IPOs and conglomerates were proliferating. Yes, the bulls had been driving the market for the past few years, but Jerry Steinman wasn’t the only one who sensed trouble ahead. Leveraged buyouts and hostile takeovers were rampant, with junk bonds financing many speculative deals.

Earlier in the year, the Securities and Exchange Commission had conducted numerous investigations of illegal insider trading. That was the problem now, Ted reasoned. His clients still remembered those investigations, and they were wary of more high-risk trading. And due to the extremely strong economic growth, inflation was becoming a concern. The Fed had rapidly raised short-term interest rates to temper inflation, but now that was hurting the stocks. Like many other institutional trading firms, Goldberg, Finch and Dodge had started utilizing portfolio insurance to protect against further stock dips. This was absolutely legit—using futures contracts as an insurance policy for their clients. In case the market crashed, they could make money, offsetting the losses in the stock holdings. But with the rise in interest rates, many of the large institutional firms were all using portfolio insurance at the same time. This perhaps was not the best thing.

He admitted something else. He was nervous. October 13 and he was at 640,000 on his commission run. Only one of his sure-fire clients had bought into the junk bond idea. Ted felt the perspiration breaking out on his forehead.

Why did Lin Su have to mention the Million Dollar Club to his parents? Her parents were living on the West Coast and her grandparents were thousands of miles across the ocean, but his parents lived only five blocks away. His father slapped him on the back at the meal at the club on Sunday night and congratulated him. That had felt good, coming from the man who had assured him that he didn’t have a chance in the stock market, the man who had made his life miserable during all the growing up years. A slap on the back. A smile.

Trouble was, it wasn’t a done deal yet.

He’d been right on track to do his million-dollar business. But his clients—even the highest risk ones—were sitting on their hands and not doing much because they were scared. He knew the junk bonds were going to pay big. So if his clients weren’t interested, he’d invest some himself.

He rummaged through the new clients from Jerry, stopping at the portfolio of Dr. Harold Kaufman. Jerry had told him that this man never followed his account. All he cared about was glancing over his statement once a quarter and seeing that the stocks were going up. Hmm. There was a possibility. Ted would make them soar! No, it wasn’t authorized by the doctor—heavy trading—but he’d still trade within the blue chips and mutuals. No junk bonds. Yet. Then with the return he expected on these trades, the doctor wouldn’t have one thing to complain about.

Ted winced only once, remembering Jerry’s words: “I’m trusting you with my biggest clients, Ted. Do them right.” And then that lecture on junk bonds.

Ted prided himself on many things, but perfect integrity was not one of them. So far his illustrious career at Goldberg, Finch and Dodge had not necessitated any fudging. He tried to push one unpleasant memory from long ago out of his mind, the make-it-or-break-it course at MIT. The ticket into grad school. He had known then, and he knew now what to do and how to cover his tracks. Nothing dishonest. An adjustment. A simple adjustment.

He sat at the desk and typed out the orders for trading. The way he figured it, five days of heavy trading in Dr. Kaufman’s account would increase the surgeon’s portfolio and bring Ted pretty close to that milliondollar goal. It was definitely a risk worth taking. And with a little luck, Dr. Kaufman wouldn’t even notice the trading. All he would look at was the result. A lot of profit.

But he sure wished that annoying little voice would go away.

Know your client.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 14

To break the monotony of the silence on the d%rive home from work with her father, Lissa reviewed the day: the kids in the library, little Amber begging for another book by Marguerite Henry, an impromptu tutoring session with Holly, Mrs. Gruder checking on her for the third time in three days.

“Are you okay, Lissa?”

What was she supposed to answer?

Yep, doing great, Mrs. Gruder. Feeling very up and positive after I freaked out on the highway, after I learned that my dad is going to sell my horse… .

Ev MacAllister’s words
battle plan
floated somewhere in the back of her mind, but she had not found any concrete steps to take, in spite of her efforts to scribble ideas in her journal.

Then a bright memory, one that almost made her blush, flashed in front of her: lunchtime earlier today, huddled in the corner of the teachers’ lounge with her head stuck in one of the books Mrs. Gruder had purchased from The Sixth Declension. She told herself she was simply brushing up on Latin to prepare for the tutoring session on Friday. But it was more than that. Latin and Italian swirled in her mind. She kept smelling the espresso and feeling the connection between Silvano and her.

“Look at those leaves, Liss!” Her father’s loud voice interrupted her thoughts. “Gorgeous colors. They’ll be at their height in a week—two at most. Nothing nicer than driving up good old Lookout Mountain in the fall.”