Andrew James stood ramrod straight before the Trust’s president, Mr. Melton, his hands tucked behind his back. “You asked to speak to me, sir.”
Looking up from his document review, Mr. Melton smiled, his spectacled, gray eyes genuinely pleased to see Andrew, and gestured to a chair. He laced his thin bony fingers, leaning forward onto the ornate mahogany desk in his lavish office. “Andrew, what are you doing here?”
Confused, Andrew’s brows drew together slightly. “You asked to see me, sir,” he reiterated. “Is there something amiss?”
“Why are you not home with your family?”
Unable to hold the president’s gaze, Andrew glanced away, releasing a quiet sigh as he focused out the wide windows, across the rooftops of other nearby buildings. “You’ve met my mother. There’s nothing I can do at home, sir.”
A long silence filled the space between the two men as Mr. Melton considered. “I understand. Nevertheless, I’m worried about you, Andrew. I’m told you’ve spent the last two days shut in your brother’s office long after hours.”
“Nothing new,” Andrew countered wryly. “I’ve spent many more than the last two days working long after hours since I came on with the Trust. It’s how I keep things running smoothly. Amid the lengthy list of my character flaws, certainly you don't fault me for that.”
Seeing Mr. Melton’s face set in a blank patient stare, he rolled his eyes and voluntarily explained himself. “I’ve been going through Russell’s ledgers and balance sheets. The majority of his investments were in bad shape. For that, I’m responsible, sir,” he confessed, his blue-green eyes cast down to conceal the rest of his thoughts.
It wasn’t merely that his brother’s investments had been struggling, or that Russell had balanced the losses with a novel approach. Andrew had reviewed every account file, every business record, every note and communication stored in Russell’s office. Buried inside one client account, he’d found another unlabeled file. One full of jotted and crossed out addresses and, alarmingly, random payments to an undisclosed recipient. It also contained a single returned letter for an address in California with the post office stamp: No Forwarding Address On File. The cryptic note, in his brother’s unmistakable hand, read: She’s found you. Keep away.
Harold Melton and Andrew’s father were old friends and former partners. Under their guidance, the Bank and Trust had grown, prospering through World War I, surviving the Spanish flu epidemic and even the 1929 market crash when other banks had gone under. He and Russell had grown up with the Melton children and Harold had treated them like his sons, especially after their father’s untimely demise a few months after Hoover's Smoot-Hawley Act was passed, further reducing international trade and worstening the Depression, mid-year in 1930, when Andrew was just twenty-two years old.
“Young man, just because this was your brother’s suicide doesn’t make you responsible,” the president replied mildly. He took a sip from his coffee, a cup even Andrew could smell from a few feet away contained mostly bourbon, then skimmed the next page of the document he’d been reviewing.
“I’m afraid it does. Russell reported to me.” Andrew’s eyes became distant. “I must admit that I didn’t audit his holdings the way I did other financers—I assumed he was doing well as long as his accounting was in the black.”
“And was it?” Across from him, the president set his document aside and stared at the younger Mr. James. When Andrew nodded, he continued, “Not an unreasonable policy then. We do keep you rather busy here, Andrew, and your direct reports are supposed to be the best in the business. Why are you so insistent on your culpability?”
“Because I treated him differently.”
“You didn’t invent nepotism, Andrew.” The corners of Mr. Melton’s mouth curled slightly as he chuckled and he looked younger than his years. “Your father and I were partners in this firm. Trust allows you to do more, to advance more, exactly as the trust between our families has. As such, I don’t intend to put the entire onus of this fiasco on you. Whatever else was happening, Russell was primarily responsible— you did what you could to rectify the situation. You saved the girl. His secretary—what was her name?” He shuffled through a few papers on his desk, and not finding what he sought, dismissed her much more easily than Andrew had been able to.
In fact, he was finding it entirely impossible to do so.
Constantly over the intervening days since Russell's death, his head was filled with her lingering scent— flower-fresh Ivory soap with the faintest touch of lavender and mint. The skin at the nape of his neck and into his hair tingled randomly, remembering the feeling of her delicate fingers, gently stroking there, the tender caress of her breath across his skin. Worst of all, his mutinous body reminisced all too readily about the recpirocal warmth of her slender figure through their clothes, the tangle of her slim legs with his.
It wasn't simply her beauty though— not the tender flesh, soft as a baby's on the wrist he'd held, not the fine smooth complexion or even her indescribable eyes— after all, if he desired mere beauty, Andrew could simply attend one of the annoying plethora of parties his mother was incessantly hosting, replete with high society's cream of the crop in terms of young beautiful and eligible women, viciously stalking a marriageable man of the right social stature, the right financial success, insatiably hungering like Harpies.
Not a one of whom would have risked their lives to save his brother.
Which made this young woman worth something considerably more.
“At least we won’t have to pay a settlement to her family. And so the only thing left is to lay your brother to rest and reassign Russell’s accounts. You say you’ve gone through them. How do you recommend they be split?”
“I don’t.” Andrew’s tone was firm. “I want them assigned to me.”
“Andrew—.”
“Please, sir, hear me out,” Andrew pleaded. “My brother’s numbers were legitimately in the black, even though his primary investment was real estate.”
“Good God, no wonder he jumped. I had no idea the man was so handicapped.” Mr. Melton’s face screwed up, pained. “Why was he holding properties?”
Andrew’s broad shoulders lifted in a slight shrug. “Most of his holdings he’d had since before the crash. Many of them had nearly doubled in value. But after—,” he cut off. Mr. Melton needed no explanation of the turn of fortunes so many had suffered in the Great Crash of '29.
“Naturally afterwards, he was left holding a lot of debt— he should have come to one of us.”
“That’s the thing, sir. He wasn’t. The way he was balancing everything to keep his accounting good was complicated but rather brilliant—it just couldn’t stand a decade’s worth of testing. I don't understand why he didn't talk to one of us either, but perhaps he thought given enough time he could rectify the portfolio.”
When the president said nothing, Andrew leaned closer, excited. “Real estate shows no sign of rebounding but the market does. Between the Japanese and the Germans, we’re headed for a war market.”
“And that’s relevant to your brother’s accounts how?” Shrewd gray eyes pierced into Andrew’s. Like his father, this young man’s instincts about and understanding of the stock market and global economy were equaled by none in the business. If Andrew had an insight, it was more than worth the effort to listen.
“Manufacturing, sir. Food processing, uniform and equipment manufacturing, warehouse storage prior to shipping. You have to have someplace to do it, and someplace to store the outcome of it.” Andrew leaned forward, his hands on the opposite side of the president’s desk. “Paired with the infrastructure and manufacturing investments in my portfolio, this Trust stands to make a significant amount of money on Russell’s investments when war breaks out.”
“You mean ‘if’ war breaks out.”
Andrew shook his head. “No, sir. War isn’t an if. It’s a when. Hitler is clearly advancing his agenda and the Japanese are pushing from the other side of the continent. American allies in Europe don’t have the capacity to stand against a war on two fronts without our support.”
“Powerful as FDR has become, son, he doesn’t have American support for a war, especially after the last one being viewed as a way for munitions manufacturers to profit. He has an election to win next year. He can’t afford to alienate the public.”
“Respectfully, sir, things are changing rapidly in Europe. Whether the US of A and its isolationism policy can survive remains to be seen. I personally have my doubts.” Andrew fixed the older man, the more fatherly of the men he’d grown up with in life, with a direct and earnest look. “With all due respect, sir, I haven’t been wrong in all the time I’ve worked for the Trust. Please, let me do it. Let me turn Russell’s legacy here around, sir.”Leaning against his chairback, the Trust president eyed him thoughtfully. “Very well, Andrew. But—,” he paused for emphasis, “not until Monday. As the only adult male James, you have a family to look after and your own grieving to do.”
“Yes, sir,” Andrew conceded reluctantly then stood and quickly left the office before any other terms could be applied to his small victory.
It was just as well anyway. He'd already assumed responsibility of Russell's accounts in every other capacity besides the president's approval. Doubtless, it was a lot— between his own expansive account holdings and the addition of his brother's, he'd have to develop some tolerance and train a secretary.
And Andrew had the perfect woman in mind.
“Evie!” Lily pounded on her apartment door. “Are you ready? If we don’t catch a cab soon, we’ll be late.”Inhaling deeply and calling up patience for her beloved friend, Evelyn opened her apartment door.“Oh, so you are dressed.” Pushing past her, Lily circled, tugging at the borrowed black dress and pinching at the side seams under Evelyn’s arms. “It’s a bit big—you’re so thin, really—but it’s scarcely noticeable. Must we carry on with the sling?”“The doctor was most vehement I wear it and rest my shoulder for ten days.”Lily rolled her eyes skyward, counting on her fingers. “Well, it’s been—essentially seven days already. If it’s not still hurting, today would be a good trial run, don’t you think? You won’t be wearing it to work on Monday, that’s for certain. Can’t have anyone thinking you might be disabled or attempting to garner sympathy in some way.”Lifting her brows, Evelyn nodded in agreement. “That’s true. Fine. Let me take it off.”“Oh, don’t bother folding it,” Lily groaned
Standing numbly beside his mother, the stoic Andrew took little comfort from her through Russell’s public service, heard little of the words spoken on his brother’s behalf. His blank eyes wandered from one face to another in the sea of invited mourners and he felt miserably alone. Familiar strangers, not one of them the kind of friend his brother had been in life. He loathed their ingratiating superficiality, resented their pandering crudeness, expensively cloaked as civilized high society when actually they were barely above savages, kissing each other's cheeks in public and viciously shredding each other in private. “I am the resurrection and the life, says the Lord. Those who believe in me shall live, even though they die…” How am I to do what they ask, brother? Andrew voiced his agonized thoughts to the voiceless nothingness, the dismal gray day another stifling pressure seeping into his already burdened core, dragging him down like a swamped boat. It swallowed up any miniscule s
“Good evening, Mr. Kittrels.” Evelyn set her laundry basket beside the agitator machine and smiled. “Thank you for restocking the furnace.”Upon their return to the city after Mr. James' funeral, Lily had promptly taken her leave, claiming she needed to run errands and leaving Evelyn to brood alone. Though she'd tried other distractions-- a library book on the collapse of the Roman Empire, the radio, even a nap-- Evelyn simply couldn't stop her mind, turning over and over the strange interaction with Andrew James in the conservatory of his family estate.The old man turned his soot-smudged face towards her. He dumped his shovelful of coal into the old Octopus, and leaning on the shovel, removed his hat quickly. “Good day to you, miss. Are you warm enough upstairs then?”Turning the spigot, Evelyn started the bucket of her wash water. “What&rsqu
Evelyn followed Lily across the trust’s lobby towards the lifts. Her head throbbed dully and her heart pounded, products of the deep-seated, unshakeable dread she’d been harboring since Russell James’ death a week before. She waved with a weak smile as the doors to Lily’s lift closed, sighing heavily at the soft chime of her arriving one. Just make it to your desk, Evelyn urged herself mentally. After that, you can figure out the next step. She repeated the mantra over and over as the doors opened releasing passengers, closed, and the lift lurched upwards again. When they reached the ninth floor, she hesitated, almost missing her stop.As usual, the office was empty. Evelyn was nearly always the first one here. A heavy rock fell into the pit of her stomach, as memories of the previous week flashed into her head. Breathing in small pants, she moved slowly to her desk, tucked her belongings into her drawer, then stood, lost.She stared at the low stack of papers on the desk—work she’d c
Andrew couldn’t help the slight smile that pulled the corners of his lips as he exited the elevator the following morning. Though he'd told her nine o'clock and was early himself, Evelyn was already at her desk, her dark head tipped down as she focused on her work. It gave him an inexplicably hefty dose of pleasure to see it.Which made absolutely no sense at all. From top to bottom, the Trust was full of busily working people, nearly every day of the week. And he knew it wasn't simply relief not to find the horrible Mrs. Stiles and her dim-witted secretarial selection waiting imperiously instead as he had yesterday— the vile woman wouldn't dare attempt to remove Evelyn without his express approval a second time. He'd ensure it.What pleased him so about Evelyn was that she was grateful. Not that anyone else here wasn't grateful for their employment in this economy, but in her case, she was grateful specifically to him. Foolish as it seemed, Andrew rather liked that he'd both been her
Working for the vice president Mr. James was much different than working for the financer Mr. James had been. Though Andrew James’ schedule was often full from the moment he walked in the door until the end of business hours, the meetings were seldom in his office or required anything afterwards from Evelyn.She handled phone calls, and with some simple direction, assumed responsibility for Mr. James' schedule, then retrieved records for his review prior to his meetings. Aside from boxing and moving account records, the most strenuous part of her day consisted of sorting his incoming mail and getting him fresh coffee in the few minutes between meetings before he was off again. On her own desk, her typewriter was growing dusty, and she couldn't recall the last time she'd had need of her notepad.To make herself more useful, Evelyn began studying Andrew James carefully. Attempting to anticipate his needs, she grew attuned to the rhythms of his life and body quickly. Within a couple weeks
As the elevator door opened on the ninth floor, Andrew found himself face to face with Evelyn. She smiled, bumping into him like this, a cute, shy smile that lit her face, and if possible, made her even more spectacularly pretty. Beside her, a bored young man in building livery held a dolly with a stack of boxes leaned against him.“More records heading upstairs?” Andrew stepped out of the elevator, holding the door as the dolly was wheeled in and so he could talk to Evelyn as they passed each other in a simple dance.“Yes sir. The last of them," she beamed, hurrying around him. "Then it's only the content of the desks. I should be back shortly.”“Very good. I do have another meeting this afternoon—."Evelyn smiled, nodding. "Yes sir. I know. Do you need me to attend with you?""No. Not at all. Only if I miss your return, do have a good evening.”“I’ll certainly be back before you leave," she assured him with a little wave as the elevator doors closed.He was glad she was excited.Surp
"Oh, look Evie!" Lily grabbed her around the shoulders and twisted slightly as they made their way towards the subway. "It's Henry opening the grocery. See him waving at you?" With more than a little reluctance, Evelyn glanced over and with a polite smile, lifted a hand in response to his wave. "Why must you do this to me, Lily?" "For heaven's sake, he's excited. He's been out here every morning since we were at the grocery, just to make sure he sees you on your way to work. It's cute." With a quiet sigh, Evelyn hurried her pace. She'd resigned herself to the fact that Lily was insistent on playing matchmaker, but that didn't mean she had to like it. For the life of her, she couldn't understand why there was even a drive. What good would it do? Everyone around her was constantly scraping to get by— could barely afford to take care of themselves. Veering across the sidewalk, she checked be
“Stop, Peter!” Sarah exclaimed, whirling to face behind her. She shot her brother an angry glare. “Peter, for pity’s sake, don’t throw dirt clods at your sister,” Andrew called over his shoulder, shifting his swaddled, sleeping son from his right shoulder to his left as they walked the long, tree-lined drive that led to the James’ estate, perched with its back on a bluff overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Gulls rode the ocean updrafts in the afternoon sun above the glistening water, occasionally diving when something of interest caught their eye. On the opposite side of the tree-lined drive, his wife’s tiny orchard of glossy-leaved oranges in full bloom left a sweet scent drifting over the drive on the warm, salty breeze off the sea. Not far away, Evelyn's gated garden was growing lush with upright stalks of corn, twined in the loving arms of pole beans with the wide leaves of squash spreading in a carpet at their feet along the ground in one row. In another, her tomatoes were already d
“M-ma-ma.” The stuttering word was an alarming half-sob and half-gurgle from the wounded Becky. “M-ma-m-ma.” Dear God! Whoever it was had shot her! That poor, helpless girl! Why!? She wasn’t a threat! And there was absolutely nothing here of any value! Evelyn’s heart leapt to her throat and hammered painfully. But she stayed close to the wall, inching forward on tiptoe to clutch at Andrew’s jacket. She pointed to the floor where their shadows fell long across it from the single overhead lamp in the middle of the room. If they drew too close to the door, their shadows would be visible to the intruder in the darkened hall leading to the bedrooms. She pointed to the window, and Andrew jerked his chin towards it in acknowledgement. Escape. They had to escape. Outside, on the sidewalk, they could summon the patrolling police officer. They could summon help. Men trained for this. Men with other guns. They had to move fast. Miranda’s daughter needed them. Even above the scuffling noises fr
Andrew rose slowly to his feet, an antagonized muscle twitching along his clean-shaven jaw. His expression looked like a bomb about to explode. Evelyn drew a sudden breath, one hand clapping over her mouth. She stared, in turns, first at Will, then at Miranda, and her mind whirled. What was it Alexander Lowell had said the day that Detective Kelly had attempted to arrest her? The same day he’d later resigned from the police department. Something about the detective being fed what he needed to lay an accusation upon Evelyn. The question of ‘why’ anyone cared about a lowly former secretary enough to attempt to kill her, let alone invest the effort in framing her was growing more convoluted by the minute. But it was clear it was centered here, with the account belonging to Glorietta Moreno and her rights as an heir to it. “It’s a stretch,” Andrew said softly, nodding towards Miranda, “but I can see why your mother might have had Russell’s name on that account. N
“You folks just planning on waiting?” their cabbie asked, his dark eyes studying Andrew and Will in the rearview mirror, despite that Evelyn was seated between them. “Meter’s running. Makes no never mind to me if you do, but I’ll have to circle the block or the flatfoots will cite me.” “How long do we have to decide?” Andrew asked, reluctant to have the cab move on the off chance that they might miss Miranda's departure for work during the process. “’Nother minute or two at most.” “Thank you.” He shifted slightly on the cab’s rear seat so he could better see his companions. “I know we’re early, but if she’s keeping business hours, I’d have expected she’d have to allow time to travel to a workplace. You’re certain this is the building, Will?” “It’s the place,” he replied definitively. “I can go in and wait. Tail her to wherever she’s going, then come get you.” “Is it possible she recognized you yesterday?” Evelyn asked, peering through the murk
The dancing had worked like a charm. For a couple of hours. Andrew had managed to get just shy of another couple hours on top of that, burning time off the afternoon by alternating between listening to the orchestra rehearse, dancing, and finally, by slipping a bribe to the broadcasting staff to show Evelyn their equipment set-up and to take their sweet time about it. After that, she’d become too fretful to do much beyond distractedly, which had quickly spoiled the ballroom option for both of them. They’d retired to their drawing room, taken afternoon tea, then Evelyn’s pacing had begun again in earnest. He had to admit, watching her as she combed through her drying hair at the dressing table, it might be time to worry about Will a little. It was going on eight o’clock. Late by any business standard, but certainly well past the time when most diners catering to the kind of clients they’d seen at the DeBaliviere Diner and Waffle House would be visiting
Wednesday morning in St. Louis dawned dark and gloomy and only marginally better than it had been upon their arrival early afternoon on Monday. When Evelyn emerged from the bedroom into the drawing room where he and the constantly-moving Will waited, Andrew flicked the newspaper he’d been reading down and smiled. They’d all slept poorly—again. They’d all woken late—again—and after their enjoyable brunch yesterday, both men were eager to see what other offerings were available in the East Lounge’s dining area. “Well?” she asked, her red-tinged and particle-irritated eyes roving the drawing room’s lush furnishings, immediately spotting the unmistakable coating of fine black powder and ash. “Are we trapped inside again today? It seems faintly better.” Will snorted. “By comparison to yesterday, being buried in black sand would seem better.” Andrew chuckled, setting aside the St. Louis Star-Times he’d been reading. He rifled through a stack of newspapers o
The hotel’s ballroom was a gently baroque style. Its elegant space was replete with all manner of luxuries one would expect of a high-profile hotel, no matter where one might visit in the world—custom paneled with artfully etched-mirror and plaster walls, gold-leafed accents and intricate crown moldings. Above the near-magical dancefloor, which was lit from below, hung in the decorative ceiling, a ponderous crystal chandelier lit the warm wooden dancefloor beneath it. Along the periphery, undulating balconies supported by Corinthian pilasters gave an air of classicism to the space, but one not overly staid. These generous galleries provided seating for those who had only come for a meal, to watch the dancing or to listen to the orchestra. They’d dressed for a late dinner, but though the orchestra played, their music broadcast exactly as Evelyn had always dreamed of experiencing, she and Andrew hadn’t danced. In fact, they hadn’t stayed much longer than
“The Coronado was built, and I believe is now run, by Preston Bradshaw,” Andrew advised more than an hour later as their cab pulled away from the curb at the train depot. “He graduated from Columbia with my brother, Russell. The two were quite good friends as I recall. My father introduced him to Stanford White in New York City where he worked before returning to St. Louis. He’s responsible for the monumental hotels on Lindell Boulevard. The Melbourne and the Coronado at midtown and the theatre district. And opposite, near the Central West end, the Chase and the Forest Park hotels were also his commissions.” “Did you know him?” Evelyn asked, closing her burning eyes and resting her head against his shoulder. “Is that why we’re staying at the Coronado?” She left unspoken the reminder that the Coronado Hotel, in particular the hotel’s famed Caprice Club, was where they’d found Charlotte to serve Andrew’s divorce paperwork after their tip-off from the Princes in Los Angeles.
The following morning Evelyn woke alone. She could tell by the way his belongings were packed that Andrew had already risen. If she was any guess, he was taking advantage of the train’s onboard barber, which meant she had time to bathe and dress without his typical morning enthusiasm for both processes. Selecting a warm dress from her traveling case, she draped her clothing over the empty towel rack in the bathroom and rooted through her toiletries for her toothbrush and toothpowder. When she was done, she hung a fresh towel on the rack nearest the shower beside the still-damp one Andrew had used and stepped under the spray. The warm shower felt delightful and soothed the telltale soreness from her bedroom exertions with her husband the night before. Once she’d washed, she stood with the warm spray draining off of her and for the first time since they’d come, wondered what they were going to do in St. Louis. They had only the name of a diner and a hotel off t