Read Online Chasing the Wind by Pamela Binnings Ewen - Free Book Online
Authors: Pamela Binnings Ewen
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best in town. Most of the banks had already committed to the project—they knew a good opportunity when one came along.
He swiped off the last of the shaving cream, splashed his face with water, and went off to dress, humming. He slipped on the white shirt the maids had washed, starched, and ironed and worked his fingers over the row of tiny buttons down the front, thinking a man needs a woman for this kind of thing. This made him think of Amalise Catoir, the pretty young associate at Mangen & Morris. Then he shrugged off the thought. She was too young and already a widow, he'd heard. He frowned, struggling with the gold cuff links. Plus, he was over the hill and better off alone. No sense in making a woman a widow twice.
Bingham pulled on the black pants and snapped his suspenders up over the shirt, thinking he wouldn't mind wearing a tuxedo every night. This was the good life. High polish on the black wingtips. He held up the shoes and sniffed the new leather. You can always tell an expensive shoe by the smell of the leather, he thought. And you can tell the quality of a man by the shine on his shoes.
There was a large mirror over the chest of drawers. Leaning close, he stretched the bow tie around his collar and snapped it. Last time he'd worn these clothes was for dinner at Le Cirque in Manhattan with Tom. That was his introduction to the other investors. Eat, drink, and be merry. The meal had cost him plenty, but it was a good investment.
Shaking his head, Bingham stepped back from the mirror. He was glad to be through with that part of the deal. He pulled on the jacket, adjusting the shoulders and sleeves, and regarded himself. He turned, checking himself from one angle, then another. Tom's tailor had done a good job. Facing the mirror again, he stood straight, studying his tall, thin frame and patted his flat stomach. Not bad for an old ace. He leaned forward and rubbed the skin on his cheeks, glad to be rid of the beard, then saluted himself and walked to the door.
Hah, he thought as he opened the door and closed it behind him, most people would've thought it couldn't be done.
Chapter Seven
The air was crisp and cool when Amalise left work that October evening. The six o'clock bells of the Jesuit church across from the Roosevelt Hotel were ringing as she stood on the corner outside the First Merchant Bank building. The fruit stand down the street was still open for business, so she crossed Common and strolled down Baronne to chat with the old lady who tended the cart. She said hello, checked out the satsumas. The sweet, pungent fragrance of the citrus fruit made her mouth water. She bought a half dozen. The old lady placed them in a brown paper bag, and Amalise, clutching the bag along with her briefcase and purse, strolled back to the parking lot on Common.
Walking into the yellow glow of the garage, she waved to Mr. Picou in the ticket booth and the security guard on duty. Once in the elevator, she pulled a satsuma from the bag, peeled it, and popped a section into her mouth, savoring the tangy burst of flavor. Jude was right: She'd take things as they came and enjoy each one.
Thinking of the small two-room suite she'd rented in a boutique hotel in the Quarter, she started the car and began the slow descent to the exit. Her place was on Chartres Street, not far from where she'd lived while attending law school. Feeling a little lonely, she reminded herself that this was only temporary, just until she located an apartment or—she smiled at the prospect—maybe even a house. Something small, uptown. She had the money to buy. Phillip's last surprise had been a large life insurance policy.
Unintentionally he'd left her well off when he'd purchased the mutual policies. One hundred thousand dollars sat uninvested in her bank account. Her face contorted at the thought. She'd use some of it to buy a home somewhere safe; Phillip owed her that much. But the rest? Blood money sitting in her bank account. She
He swiped off the last of the shaving cream, splashed his face with water, and went off to dress, humming. He slipped on the white shirt the maids had washed, starched, and ironed and worked his fingers over the row of tiny buttons down the front, thinking a man needs a woman for this kind of thing. This made him think of Amalise Catoir, the pretty young associate at Mangen & Morris. Then he shrugged off the thought. She was too young and already a widow, he'd heard. He frowned, struggling with the gold cuff links. Plus, he was over the hill and better off alone. No sense in making a woman a widow twice.
Bingham pulled on the black pants and snapped his suspenders up over the shirt, thinking he wouldn't mind wearing a tuxedo every night. This was the good life. High polish on the black wingtips. He held up the shoes and sniffed the new leather. You can always tell an expensive shoe by the smell of the leather, he thought. And you can tell the quality of a man by the shine on his shoes.
There was a large mirror over the chest of drawers. Leaning close, he stretched the bow tie around his collar and snapped it. Last time he'd worn these clothes was for dinner at Le Cirque in Manhattan with Tom. That was his introduction to the other investors. Eat, drink, and be merry. The meal had cost him plenty, but it was a good investment.
Shaking his head, Bingham stepped back from the mirror. He was glad to be through with that part of the deal. He pulled on the jacket, adjusting the shoulders and sleeves, and regarded himself. He turned, checking himself from one angle, then another. Tom's tailor had done a good job. Facing the mirror again, he stood straight, studying his tall, thin frame and patted his flat stomach. Not bad for an old ace. He leaned forward and rubbed the skin on his cheeks, glad to be rid of the beard, then saluted himself and walked to the door.
Hah, he thought as he opened the door and closed it behind him, most people would've thought it couldn't be done.
Chapter Seven
The air was crisp and cool when Amalise left work that October evening. The six o'clock bells of the Jesuit church across from the Roosevelt Hotel were ringing as she stood on the corner outside the First Merchant Bank building. The fruit stand down the street was still open for business, so she crossed Common and strolled down Baronne to chat with the old lady who tended the cart. She said hello, checked out the satsumas. The sweet, pungent fragrance of the citrus fruit made her mouth water. She bought a half dozen. The old lady placed them in a brown paper bag, and Amalise, clutching the bag along with her briefcase and purse, strolled back to the parking lot on Common.
Walking into the yellow glow of the garage, she waved to Mr. Picou in the ticket booth and the security guard on duty. Once in the elevator, she pulled a satsuma from the bag, peeled it, and popped a section into her mouth, savoring the tangy burst of flavor. Jude was right: She'd take things as they came and enjoy each one.
Thinking of the small two-room suite she'd rented in a boutique hotel in the Quarter, she started the car and began the slow descent to the exit. Her place was on Chartres Street, not far from where she'd lived while attending law school. Feeling a little lonely, she reminded herself that this was only temporary, just until she located an apartment or—she smiled at the prospect—maybe even a house. Something small, uptown. She had the money to buy. Phillip's last surprise had been a large life insurance policy.
Unintentionally he'd left her well off when he'd purchased the mutual policies. One hundred thousand dollars sat uninvested in her bank account. Her face contorted at the thought. She'd use some of it to buy a home somewhere safe; Phillip owed her that much. But the rest? Blood money sitting in her bank account. She
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