eyes—cold now but combustible.
“No, no,” Peter said. “Fine. More than fine.”
Peter knew he had failed to hide his shock. Seventy-five K was nearly twice what he’d been pulling-in writing mortgage loans. The thought of a hundred K and a down-the-road-bonus knocked his heart against his backbone.
“Now, Peter,” Ayers said, “about the loan secured against your mother’s house . . .”
Peter mentally switched gears. “The loan? Once I verify income, I can schedule repayment.”
“No,” Ayers said. “Stenman Partners will arrange to pay off the second mortgage—and keep the house from going up for sale. You should be able to handle the original loan on your own. With Morgan’s permission, I’ve already cut a check for fifty thousand dollars. The amount will be deducted from your year-end bonus.”
“Am I dreaming?” Peter asked, looking to Ayers.
“I erase your debts,” Stenman said, “because I do not want my employees’ attention diverted from business. Any other questions?”
“When do I start?” Peter asked, thinking they had way overpaid for him. He would have been happy to work for half what they offered and been satisfied with the annual five percent raises the rest of the world lived with. When you’ve had dose after dose of shit luck, you get used to the smell. He tried not to, but worried there had to be a catch.
“You begin tomorrow. Five-thirty,” Ayers answered. “New York markets open at half past six, but foreign markets trade all night.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Peter sputtered.
“Show up on time and do what it takes not to fail.” Stenman’s voice sounded guttural.
“Dress is smart-casual, Peter.” Ayers chuckled. “Only Martha Stewart knows what that means.”
“You report to Howard Muller—third floor.” As Stenman spoke, obliterating Ayers’ attempt at lightening the mood, Peter’s head jerked back to her. “Now,” she said in a dismissive tone, “I have other matters to discuss with my attorney.”
Ayers guided Peter away with a hand on his elbow. As Peter stepped out, the older man said, “Good luck.”
The office door clicked shut before Peter could respond. He closed his mouth and stumbled across the firm’s main floor, shocked a bombshell hadn’t exploded at the last second and shattered this amazing karma. Before exiting, he glanced toward the corner of the room where he had first seen Kate Ayers. She held a phone to her ear, but mouthed the words to Peter, “Goodbye, see you at seven.”
Peter nodded and drifted down the hallway. At the elevator, he punched the air with his fist in a subdued celebration. What a turnabout, he thought. Seventy-five plus bonus. Going to a hundred if I make it.
“I’ll make it all right,” he swore. “For that kind of money, I’ll learn everything. Do what I’m told. Do whatever it takes.”
Once Peter stepped outdoors, the sun penetrated his clothes and warmed his flesh. The air smelled sweet. The traffic rang vibrant. He now understood what it felt like to be at the center of a universe with all matter revolving around you. It felt exhilarating.
CHAPTER FIVE
B ULLY ’ S R ESTAURANT HAS A LOUD BAR AND DECENT STEAKS . At night, it is always crowded, attracting off-track bettors who migrate in as a clique to drink and distort their successes. The place is perpetually nighttime dark, smells of dripping fat, has crisscrossing wood beams, and yet it managed to feel intimate in the half-wall booth where Peter and Kate shared fifteen years of stories.
After several minutes of catch-up, they got around to ordering a bottle of Cabernet. Once the wine arrived, Peter said, “You look great. I can’t believe you’ve grown up into . . . well, into this . . .” He spread his arms, palms upturned in the gesture of a man offering up something special.
“Little ol’ me?” she asked, flapping her eyelids in mock Southern Belle style. “You mean this beautiful, alluring, sexy
“No, no,” Peter said. “Fine. More than fine.”
Peter knew he had failed to hide his shock. Seventy-five K was nearly twice what he’d been pulling-in writing mortgage loans. The thought of a hundred K and a down-the-road-bonus knocked his heart against his backbone.
“Now, Peter,” Ayers said, “about the loan secured against your mother’s house . . .”
Peter mentally switched gears. “The loan? Once I verify income, I can schedule repayment.”
“No,” Ayers said. “Stenman Partners will arrange to pay off the second mortgage—and keep the house from going up for sale. You should be able to handle the original loan on your own. With Morgan’s permission, I’ve already cut a check for fifty thousand dollars. The amount will be deducted from your year-end bonus.”
“Am I dreaming?” Peter asked, looking to Ayers.
“I erase your debts,” Stenman said, “because I do not want my employees’ attention diverted from business. Any other questions?”
“When do I start?” Peter asked, thinking they had way overpaid for him. He would have been happy to work for half what they offered and been satisfied with the annual five percent raises the rest of the world lived with. When you’ve had dose after dose of shit luck, you get used to the smell. He tried not to, but worried there had to be a catch.
“You begin tomorrow. Five-thirty,” Ayers answered. “New York markets open at half past six, but foreign markets trade all night.”
“I don’t know what to say,” Peter sputtered.
“Show up on time and do what it takes not to fail.” Stenman’s voice sounded guttural.
“Dress is smart-casual, Peter.” Ayers chuckled. “Only Martha Stewart knows what that means.”
“You report to Howard Muller—third floor.” As Stenman spoke, obliterating Ayers’ attempt at lightening the mood, Peter’s head jerked back to her. “Now,” she said in a dismissive tone, “I have other matters to discuss with my attorney.”
Ayers guided Peter away with a hand on his elbow. As Peter stepped out, the older man said, “Good luck.”
The office door clicked shut before Peter could respond. He closed his mouth and stumbled across the firm’s main floor, shocked a bombshell hadn’t exploded at the last second and shattered this amazing karma. Before exiting, he glanced toward the corner of the room where he had first seen Kate Ayers. She held a phone to her ear, but mouthed the words to Peter, “Goodbye, see you at seven.”
Peter nodded and drifted down the hallway. At the elevator, he punched the air with his fist in a subdued celebration. What a turnabout, he thought. Seventy-five plus bonus. Going to a hundred if I make it.
“I’ll make it all right,” he swore. “For that kind of money, I’ll learn everything. Do what I’m told. Do whatever it takes.”
Once Peter stepped outdoors, the sun penetrated his clothes and warmed his flesh. The air smelled sweet. The traffic rang vibrant. He now understood what it felt like to be at the center of a universe with all matter revolving around you. It felt exhilarating.
CHAPTER FIVE
B ULLY ’ S R ESTAURANT HAS A LOUD BAR AND DECENT STEAKS . At night, it is always crowded, attracting off-track bettors who migrate in as a clique to drink and distort their successes. The place is perpetually nighttime dark, smells of dripping fat, has crisscrossing wood beams, and yet it managed to feel intimate in the half-wall booth where Peter and Kate shared fifteen years of stories.
After several minutes of catch-up, they got around to ordering a bottle of Cabernet. Once the wine arrived, Peter said, “You look great. I can’t believe you’ve grown up into . . . well, into this . . .” He spread his arms, palms upturned in the gesture of a man offering up something special.
“Little ol’ me?” she asked, flapping her eyelids in mock Southern Belle style. “You mean this beautiful, alluring, sexy
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