Words Unspoken (40 page)

“Well, Eddy, this one came from the heart, from a long line of life experiences.”

“It shows, Stella. Brilliant …”

“… I can’t come back to Atlanta right away. We’ve got some family obligations. Do you think the last bit of editing will necessitate a visit?”

“No. We’re right on schedule. Go back to your mountain.”

Laughter—Stella’s. “My mountain. I believe I will.”

He jotted a few more notes to himself:

Stella is about sixty.

Lives on a mountain? Not in Atlanta, not in Chicago.

Has a northern accent.

What did “This one came from the heart” mean?
he wondered. That was a good question. He tapped the pencil on the desk, a staccato rhythm.

Leah looked over at him. “Would you mind? That’s annoying.”

He gave her his best smile. “
Scusa, amore
.”

Leah could not hold a grudge for long when he spoke to her in Italian.

That made him think of Lissa. She was working out well too. The flowers he’d sent on Monday had prompted her to call and gush her appreciation. Well, perhaps
gush
was a bit strong. Still, he could tell she was pleased.

He set down the pencil, reached for the phone, and dialed the number on the calling card for Atlanta Florists. “Yes, this is Mr. Rossi again. Can you deliver twelve yellow roses to the same address on East Brow Road? Yes. Put it on my bill. Yes, thank you as well.”

Things were looking up.

________

Stella opened her copy of the
Atlanta Journal
. There it was, just as Eddy promised. A full-page ad for the novel
Driving Lessons
. Very nicely done. Thank heavens for Eddy’s push to get the book out before Christmas. She made a few quick calculations. Yes, there had been a large setback in the foundation due to Black Monday, but the advance should build it back quickly. Jerry Steinman had not sounded panicked when she’d called him for counsel last week.

“Your conservative stocks are going to climb back up, Stella. Hold tight. And trust Ted. He’ll get you through this.”

She had less money in the foundation, but she still should be able to write a sizeable check to the Swiss account come December 31.

December 31.
Her head was throbbing. That day. Why did she let the pressure build and get to her?

Someone is going to find out. After all these years.

Stop it! Everything is fine. No more menacing letters, no follow-up to the Chicago fiasco.

So what is the matter?

It was the statement from Goldberg, Finch and Dodge she’d received in the mail yesterday. She needed to ask Mr. Draper about all of the activity. Yes, she had authorized him to use discretion. He had the right to trade, but this much? And this soon after Black Monday?

She dialed Ted Draper’s number. “Hello, Ted. This is Stella Green.”

Why did her voice sound so flat?

“Hello, Miss Green.”

And his so taut?

“I’m calling about the account. I got my statement in the mail, and I find it a bit perplexing. Can we go over it?”

“Of course, Miss Green, of course. But … could I call you back in a half hour? I’m with another client right now.” His voice was a whisper, a hoarse whisper.

“All right. Thank you.” She hung up the phone.

Smooth, affable Mr. Draper sounded as if he’d just learned that all the money at Goldberg, Finch and Dodge had evaporated. Two and a half weeks after Black Monday, the experts reported that the market was recovering well. Mr. Draper was probably just having a bad day. It happened to everybody.

She glanced at the statement again. Ah, well, he’d call in a few minutes and straighten everything out.

________

This is not good, Ted. This is not good!

He felt the sweat beading on his brow, rubbed his hands over his face, and tried to calm his racing heart. Every single one of the junk bonds had crashed. Crashed and burned. No longer in existence. He had scribbled figures all over his desk calendar. Money lost! Huge sums lost! Even though he had only been trading illegally for a few weeks, Dr. Kaufman’s account was showing a sixteen percent loss overall. And Miss Green’s … Miss Green’s account had lost over twenty percent as of this morning. The statement she held in her hand did not show even half of the trading he’d done. Perplexing? She had no idea. He thought he had imagined the worst nightmare, but this topped it. He could not retrieve the money he had traded during the last weeks. It was gone. Gone!

How horribly ironic, he thought to himself. His commission on all the aggressive trading had just inched over 900,000 dollars. He would easily make the Million Dollar Club. Easily. But what good would it do from jail?

The
Atlanta Journal
lay open across his desk to the ad for the new novel. A great ad, a great marketing scheme to take this book further than any of the other Green novels. Great possibilities for investing if he would just wait. Wait? What could he do? Too late!

He tried to formulate a plausible excuse for all the trading on Miss Green’s statement. He had thirty minutes to come up with something convincing. He felt nauseated, cold sweat on his brow as if he might faint. Maybe he was going to spill his lunch all over the floor, as the young broker had done on Black Monday. He could not keep his foot from shaking. He closed the door to his office so that he could collect his thoughts without being disturbed by a dozen other brokers who were jabbering on their phones. Perhaps he could handle Miss Green as he had Dr. Kaufman’s secretary, Miss Endicott, whose first phone call had come on Tuesday, right after she had received the doctor’s statement in the mail. Ted shivered even now, recalling all her questions about the trading.

A broker must know his client
. He hated that sentence. Doggonit, he
knew
his clients! Knew them way too well. And he knew he had screwed up royally with all the heavy trading he’d done in the account of a conservative doctor who only spent money on safe things; he’d ignored the doctor’s profile and then moved on to those call options. The account had plummeted over sixteen percent and those options were worthless. Worthless! Dr. Kaufman had lost a total of 300,000.

Ted imagined Miss Endicott opening the mail and seeing the statements, trying to decipher the crazy trading, and then hurrying to bring this mystery to the doctor’s attention.

Dr. Kaufman, there seems to be a lot of activity going on in your account.
I didn’t know you traded options.

What options?

Options! Look at this!

Miss Endicott had called five times in the past three days. In each conversation, she’d sounded less cordial. Finally at one point, totally exasperated, she had said, “What you are saying makes no sense to me, Mr. Draper. This is disturbing.”

The woman was meticulous and careful, but fortunately for him, she did not understand all the intricacies of the stock market, and he had placated her with bold lies and syrupy promises. But for how long?

And would this same reasoning work with Stella Green?

He’d succeeded in putting about 75,000 dollars of the lost money back into the doctor’s account from Miss Green’s foundation after receiving authorization to send money to that phony account. Forgery, lying, fraud. The list went on and on. And soon the transfer of money from Stella’s fake foundation to Dr. Kaufman’s account would show up on the paperwork.

What could he tell Stella Green? For the first time in many years, Ted felt stumped. Surely if he concentrated hard enough, he could come up with a good story. Surely the old novelist would appreciate a good story with a surprise ending. After all, hadn’t she caught him completely off guard with her ending to
Eastern Crossings
?

Come on, Ted. Think of something. Think!

________

Janelle called Brian to let him know she’d gotten in safely and then slept straight through the first night in the States. When she opened her eyes, the little alarm clock showed 9:43 a.m. She couldn’t remember the last time she had slept in so late. With a yawn she crawled out of bed, stretched, and looked around her. How long had it been since she’d stayed in Katy Lynn’s guest room? Years. And since then, her sister had redone the room so that it literally looked like a photograph from
Southern Living
. Perfect, down to the matching curtains and bedspread and the marble-tiled bathroom with the fluffy oversized towels. It was like a four-star hotel.

She showered and dressed, coming down the steps a little sheepishly.

Katy Lynn was in the kitchen and turned to see her sister. “Well, now the tables are turned. Look who’s Miss Sleepyhead!” She laughed good-naturedly and added, “Were you awake half the night?”

“No, I slept like a baby. That bed is so comfortable.” Janelle sat down at the round table in the breakfast room. “Your home is lovely, Katy Lynn. You’ve done such a great job of decorating.”

“Thanks, Nelli. I guess that’s one thing I’m good at—decorating, for whatever that’s worth.” She shrugged. “Let me get you some coffee. I’m afraid I don’t have any croissants, but I do have some freshly baked whole-grain bread and homemade jelly.”

“That sounds perfect.”

“I hope you can just take a little time and relax today. Nothing on the schedule.”

Janelle reached for the
Journal
spread out on the table. “It’s weird to see an American paper. It’s been quite a while.”

Katy Lynn brought over a tray on which sat toast, butter, jellies, sugar, cream, and two cups of coffee. She sat across from her sister, dropped a lump of sugar in her cup, and pointed to the opened page.

“Hey, I thought you’d get a kick out of this ad. When I was going through jet lag and kept calling you, you told me to find a good book to read. So I picked one of my all-time favorites,
Eastern Crossings
. You loved that book too, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Well, look. She’s come out with another one.”

Janelle looked at the advertisement. “
Driving Lessons
. Sure is getting good reviews.” She took a bite of toast. “I’ve read every single one of her books. I remember thinking she wrote them just for me.”

“Yeah. Somehow they are personal.”

The sisters’ eyes met. They smiled and sipped their coffee.

“I can’t offer you a stroll on the beach, but we could go to the club tonight for dinner, if that sounds good.”

Janelle was still staring at the ad. She looked up. “I’d like that. I haven’t been there in ages. Is Tom still there?”

“Still there. Remember when we used to sit with him in the shade while Mom played tennis?”

“Barely. Remember, I was only three when we moved to Fort Oglethorpe.”

“True.”

“But I do remember always wanting to tag along wherever you were going. That lasted for years and years. I guess it was a pain to have a baby sister trying to keep up with you.”

“It wasn’t so bad.” Katy Lynn stood up and took her cup to the sink.

With her back to Janelle, she said, “I treated you horribly, Nelli. I was such a selfish jerk.”

“I hardly remember.” But she did.

Hey, Katy! Can I borrow your book?

You’re too young, Nelli. Anyway, it’s a sad story.

I’m not too young! I’m eleven, and I’m already reading things you just finished.

Read it then, brat.

Hey, Katy! Wait for me! Wait. I’m coming.

Do you always have to follow me everywhere? Why can’t you just get lost, Nelli? You are impossible.

How Janelle had wanted her big sister to notice her, to admit that she was grown up. She wanted to use her makeup and wear her clothes and read her books.

Janelle shook herself back to the present and, munching on a piece of toast, said, “Well, when this new novel comes out, let’s each buy a copy, and we can read it at the same time.”

“Good idea.”

________

When Mrs. Rivers brought Lissa home after a half day of work on Thursday, the second bouquet of roses was there by the front door.

“Someone certainly seems to be concerned about you, Lissa,” the librarian said with a wink.

Lissa felt herself blush. Silvano. The guy was a regular Romeo. At least she had one bright thing in her life.

She waved good-bye to Mrs. Rivers and went into the house. Setting the roses on the kitchen counter, she found Momma’s favorite vase in the china cabinet in the den, came back into the kitchen, arranged the yellow roses in the vase, and set it on the kitchen table where the paper was opened. At the top of the page, her father had scribbled in his barely legible cursive:
Thought this would interest you, since you’ve been reading a lot of her books lately
. There followed a full-page ad for S. A. Green’s new novel
Driving Lessons
.

Her father had actually noticed what she was reading? Amazing!

She sat down at the table and read the ad and the reviews. Silvano was right. Another masterpiece by S. A. Green. How very strange that this author, newly discovered by Lissa, had written a book about driving lessons. Random.

Dear Lord, thank you for Lissa. Please help her see that life isn’t random. Take care of her. Give her what she needs so that she can trust you.

She put the newspaper aside and carried the vase upstairs.

She got a chair, stood on it, and set the vase on top of the armoire. Then she took the framed photo from out of the desk drawer, brushed off a layer of dust with her sleeve, and set it next to the vase in full view: a picture of herself with Momma at the
Bal du Salut
, right before the accident. Next she walked back to the desk and took out the photo of Caleb and her after the Hunter Jumper finals in May 1985—right before the accident. She set it on top of the armoire, beside the other photo.

It’s okay. I can look back now. It’s okay.

Then she sank onto her bed, her shoulder and her wrist throbbing. On Monday, while she was recuperating in bed, Mrs. Rivers had brought her three more novels by S. A. Green to help her pass the time, and they sat by the Bible on the bedside table.