Read Online Wolfman - Art Bourgeau by Art Bourgeau - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Art Bourgeau
Ads: Link
his lunch date
had arrived.
He pushed his blond hair back on his forehead, took a
deep breath.
She stood up and held out her hand. "Hello, I’m
Erin Fraser. You’re Loring Weatherby."
"Yes, right." Her grip was strong, solid
yet feminine.
He sat down across from her, forcing himself to
smile. She was early, he was sure without looking at his watch. A
time slave, he thought with a sudden combination of anger and
weariness. Right now he needed to be alone for a few minutes. He
could feel his stomach beginning to tighten again. Why couldn't she
have been late?
"Is anything wrong?" he heard her ask.
Her words jerked him back to the present. He didn't
want her to see his displeasure . . . "I was just thinking how
times change. That you stood up when I approached the table. Usually
it’s the other way around. Or at least used to be."
As soon as he said it he knew it was all wrong.
Unnecessary. There was more than a hint of coldness in her reply. "I
open car doors and light cigarettes for men, too. Does that bother
you?"
"No . . . well, yes it does . . . sometimes,"
he said, unsure of the right answer. For him, this was the hardest
part of the investment business. Something he could do but didn't
like. Deal with the clients and potential clients face to face.
Except for a very few, namely the ones he hoped to go sailing with,
he almost never did it, choosing instead to let the profits he
generated speak for him.
"Why’s that?" she asked.
He answered truthfully. "Because then I don't
know how to treat you. It makes something simple like helping you on
with your coat or holding your chair seem like . . . well, taking
personal liberties with you."
"Sometimes it is," she said, "but it’s
an interesting question," she added, softening some.
He sat there trying to figure out how he could end
this lunch as quickly as possible, potential client or not. He was
already feeling the first touches of panic begin to return. The
belladonna wasn’t doing its job. What he needed was to go home and
shut the door on the world, the noise, the people, the aggravation .
. . He needed peace, time to think.
Erin shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said,
feeling the awkwardness of the moment. "I didn't mean to sound
strident. Something that happened this morning got to me. . ."
"I guess I'm sorry, too," he heard himself
say. "Let's start over. How about a drink and then you tell me
what happened."
"I'd like that."
When the waiter came and went, Loring sat quietly
looking at her. Erin Fraser was around thirty and very pretty. Her
dark hair was pulled back and tied, showing off the leanness of her
face; long bangs kept the style from being too severe. Her
tortoise-shell schoolboy glasses combined with her large round white
rhinestone earrings to give her a look of seriousness and
sophistication. She was wearing a white suit that was almost a pale
gray. The jacket was loose, padded shoulders and notched lapels.
Under the jacket was a navy pullover, and she wore a multi-colored
scarf looped around her neck and tied in front.
"You know I'm the curator for the upcoming
Caribbean exhibit at Taft University's Braddon Museum . . ."
"Yes, Wiladene told me," he said, a mental
picture coming to mind of the wife of Cornell Jenkins, star forward
for the Sixers and one of his best clients. Wiladene had set up the
lunch, telling him in the process about Erin and the large amount of
money she had recently inherited from her aunt that she wanted to
invest.
"Wiladene's a volunteer at the museum, along
with a thousand other charities," Erin said. "That's how we
became friends. This is a big exhibit, set to run for two years with
over five thousand items . . ." She stopped herself. "I’m
not really telling this very well. What I'm trying to say is that
there are a lot of people involved in this exhibit, but there are a
couple of Taft students, roommates who are like younger sisters to
me. This morning I found that one of them is having an affair with
had arrived.
He pushed his blond hair back on his forehead, took a
deep breath.
She stood up and held out her hand. "Hello, I’m
Erin Fraser. You’re Loring Weatherby."
"Yes, right." Her grip was strong, solid
yet feminine.
He sat down across from her, forcing himself to
smile. She was early, he was sure without looking at his watch. A
time slave, he thought with a sudden combination of anger and
weariness. Right now he needed to be alone for a few minutes. He
could feel his stomach beginning to tighten again. Why couldn't she
have been late?
"Is anything wrong?" he heard her ask.
Her words jerked him back to the present. He didn't
want her to see his displeasure . . . "I was just thinking how
times change. That you stood up when I approached the table. Usually
it’s the other way around. Or at least used to be."
As soon as he said it he knew it was all wrong.
Unnecessary. There was more than a hint of coldness in her reply. "I
open car doors and light cigarettes for men, too. Does that bother
you?"
"No . . . well, yes it does . . . sometimes,"
he said, unsure of the right answer. For him, this was the hardest
part of the investment business. Something he could do but didn't
like. Deal with the clients and potential clients face to face.
Except for a very few, namely the ones he hoped to go sailing with,
he almost never did it, choosing instead to let the profits he
generated speak for him.
"Why’s that?" she asked.
He answered truthfully. "Because then I don't
know how to treat you. It makes something simple like helping you on
with your coat or holding your chair seem like . . . well, taking
personal liberties with you."
"Sometimes it is," she said, "but it’s
an interesting question," she added, softening some.
He sat there trying to figure out how he could end
this lunch as quickly as possible, potential client or not. He was
already feeling the first touches of panic begin to return. The
belladonna wasn’t doing its job. What he needed was to go home and
shut the door on the world, the noise, the people, the aggravation .
. . He needed peace, time to think.
Erin shook her head. "I'm sorry," she said,
feeling the awkwardness of the moment. "I didn't mean to sound
strident. Something that happened this morning got to me. . ."
"I guess I'm sorry, too," he heard himself
say. "Let's start over. How about a drink and then you tell me
what happened."
"I'd like that."
When the waiter came and went, Loring sat quietly
looking at her. Erin Fraser was around thirty and very pretty. Her
dark hair was pulled back and tied, showing off the leanness of her
face; long bangs kept the style from being too severe. Her
tortoise-shell schoolboy glasses combined with her large round white
rhinestone earrings to give her a look of seriousness and
sophistication. She was wearing a white suit that was almost a pale
gray. The jacket was loose, padded shoulders and notched lapels.
Under the jacket was a navy pullover, and she wore a multi-colored
scarf looped around her neck and tied in front.
"You know I'm the curator for the upcoming
Caribbean exhibit at Taft University's Braddon Museum . . ."
"Yes, Wiladene told me," he said, a mental
picture coming to mind of the wife of Cornell Jenkins, star forward
for the Sixers and one of his best clients. Wiladene had set up the
lunch, telling him in the process about Erin and the large amount of
money she had recently inherited from her aunt that she wanted to
invest.
"Wiladene's a volunteer at the museum, along
with a thousand other charities," Erin said. "That's how we
became friends. This is a big exhibit, set to run for two years with
over five thousand items . . ." She stopped herself. "I’m
not really telling this very well. What I'm trying to say is that
there are a lot of people involved in this exhibit, but there are a
couple of Taft students, roommates who are like younger sisters to
me. This morning I found that one of them is having an affair with
Similar Books
