The Light of Hidden Flowers Read Free Page A

cake you like? A few Arnold Palmers to cool us down? A glass of champagne? Let me at least toast you for your birthday?”
    “I’ll stay at the office,” I said. “I want to work on the portfolios for a while. I have a couple companies reporting earnings this week.” In college, I majored in economics, and then pounded out an MBA. From there, I came to work for my father, learning the ropes and attaining licenses. By the time I was twenty-five, I had earned my Series 7 license for trading securities. The next year I became a certified financial planner. The Chartered Financial Analyst exam came next. I nailed each of these tests with nearly perfect scores.
    “When are we going to celebrate your birthday, then?” Dad asked.
    “We’re not,” I said. “Who are the new people coming in at ten?”
    “A business owner and his wife,” Dad said. “The wife just inherited money from her mother.”
    “They’re big shots!” Jenny—who was always listening to every conversation—bellowed from the reception area. “Most of their money is at Goldman, but the Mr. wants someone local.”
    “Big shots, huh?” I said.
    “No one’s a big shot for real,” Dad said. “People are people. They all put their pants on the same: one leg at a time.”
    Such was Dad. His entire life boiled down to putting on pants one leg at a time.

CHAPTER THREE
    When the prospects came in at 10:00 a.m. sharp, I stood with Jenny to greet them. The man introduced himself as Mr. Charles Longworth III, sporting a crisply starched shirt and a million-dollar suit, and his wife, head to toe in tweed Chanel, Mrs. Elizabeth Longworth. When my father came out of his office to meet them, I smiled because my dad always struck me as Superman, his thick silver hair, his gleaming smile, his handshake that could crush cans.
    At the sight of Dad, the prospect stood taller, puffed out his chest. “I’m Charles Longworth the Third.”
    Dad shook his hand. “Good to meet you. I know I’m going to end up calling you Charlie. One of my best friends growing up was a Charlie. Do you mind?”
    “Well actually . . .”
    Dad shrugged and smiled at him. “I’m apologizing ahead of time, Charles , in case I slip.” My dad meant no disrespect—my father never disrespected anyone—he was just familiar, it was his way.
    Dad held Mrs. Longworth’s hand in his own, commented on her broach, and said it was as lovely as she was. “Charles, Elizabeth. This is my daughter, Missy.”
    “Melissa,” I said, shaking their hands. “My father likes nicknames,” I felt compelled to add.
    “Feel free to call me Liz,” Mrs. Longworth said. It appeared she was all for loosening up a bit.
    “It’s Missy’s birthday today,” Dad said. “We’ve got computers all around this office. But we don’t need them. Not with Missy. A beautiful mind, this one has. Top of her class at the Wharton School, valedictorian in high school. Anyone who wonders how she ended up with a genius mind—well, they didn’t know her mother. My Charlene. May she rest in peace.”
    I signaled toward the conference room. “Please, come in,” I said. Meanwhile, Dad was still beaming, presumably thinking about me winning the math award my senior year or perhaps Mom completing her NY Times crossword puzzles.
    We organized ourselves around the shiny cherry table. Mr. and Mrs. Longworth sat primly with their legs crossed and hands folded. I assumed my position, fingers perched above the keyboard of my laptop, reading glasses balanced atop my head. And Dad, he reclined in the chair at the head of the table, his legs crossed casually in the shape of the numeral four, smiling at us all. Jenny brought in a tray of coffee.
    “Best coffee ever!” my father exclaimed, pointing at the tray. “Jenny’s coffee.”
    Mrs. Longworth bobbled her head up and down. “Oh, yes, lovely—”
    “Let me cut to the chase,” Mr. Longworth said, opening his leather portfolio and turning the back of a Montblanc pen.