“Hey, big guy. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Dad sent me a picture.” Smiling Chinese technicians all smaller than Peter and in white lab coats and hairnets. One even held a sign in both English and Chinese inviting Sarah and Mack to visit. And Kate. “It was kinda creepy.”
“I’ll be later than I planned, sweetie. You’ll be asleep when I get home, but I’ll be there in the morning to take you to your game.” She was juggling bowling balls with one hand.
“Okay.” It was as though Mack thought he’d never see his father in person again. Ever. He tracked him like some avatar, even invited Peter to Take Your Dad to School Day by video. He’d been reduced to one or two syllables.
“What have you been doing?” she’d asked. She knew the answer. Nothing much. Moping. Video games. Walking Siena. “Is Sarah around?”
“She’s at Rachel’s,” Mack said. Kate had forgotten about Sarah’s sleepover.
“Cathy?” The small, brown-eyed Nicaraguan they’d hired to live with the kids. Her English was broken at best, but she had a driver’s license and a green card so nobody could hold that against her in the tender offer fight. Mack hadn’t taken to her yet. Kate doubted he ever would.
“She’s around somewhere.”
Kate needed to breathe life into Mack, into Sarah—who’d now gone over a month without touching her cello—into her family. She couldn’t do it long-distance forever, but with the vote only six days away, she couldn’t turn away from that, either.
There was an announcement that the passengers needed to shut off their phones. Whatever sensor or monitor hadn’t flashed on now was working. “Sleep tight, sweetie. I’ll try not to wake you up when I give you a kiss later tonight.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
Kate let Mack’s picture linger on her phone before she shut it off.
FORTY-SEVEN
Michael Hirsch sent her a single white lily in a red ceramic pot—delicate, almost fluorescent, and yet reassuring in its solitude. His note said he was certain Kate would be the one.
Be strong. Believe in yourself
. Kate felt as though her own father were speaking to her, his weathered hand on her shoulder.
Chris Franklin’s well wishes were simpler and yet every bit as heartfelt, a small Baccarat crystal bowl with a note saying it was filled with his best wishes for her new office.
Peter sent an ecard of a rubber duck with a silly grin on her face and a good luck sign around her neck. At least he’d remembered.
Forty shareholders said they would attend the meeting, an odd collection of mutual fund and public and private money managers and some older couples who thought lunch at the Carlyle followed by window shopping on Madison would be a pleasant way to spend an afternoon. The room was filled to capacity, though, with Drake’s traders and brokers and a row of reporters from the major papers and business channels. The fact that the fight had gone on this long and hadn’t resolved itself was its own story. Kate and Mike both were featured on
Bloomberg
and in the
Financial Times
and
The Deal
. Mike Conklin looked serious in a black pinstripe suit, white-on-white shirt, and a regimental tie. Kate wore black, with a red scarf.
The proxies were marked, mailed, sorted, and ambivalent. Forty-eight percent of the holders spoke. Kate and Mike divided the proxies between them. David Blakely hadn’t yet committed, a plus in Kate’s view. Nor had Pat Dyson, or Bob Sanderson of CalPERS or Susan Martin of Fidelity. Or Jack. Or Ed. The
Wall Street Journal
expressed surprise both that Mike hadn’t raised his bid and that a white knight hadn’t come charging in. It surmised the funding wasn’t there in a market where credit had dried up.
The undecided voters had the clarity of choosing between hedging their downside with Mike’s three-dollar offer or of betting on a future built on the sort of solid research upon which Kate had built her reputation and the faith Michael Hirsch had instilled in her that she had the power to deliver on her promises. In the end, though, all the important choices, whether asking the dealer for one more card, or the woman in your arms to spend the rest of her life with you, are gambles.
Mike spoke first. It was his offer, after all, that started the whole affair. He told the Keiffer Benedict story, accelerating revenues, global expansion, returns on investment above industry standard year after year.
“We will run a clean shop. You will not find us front-running or laddering.” He didn’t stop to explain the terms because everyone in the room knew the reference was just a backhanded slap at the way Ed Roth and Steve Reed had skimmed a few hundred thousand off the top of each of Steve’s offerings.
He looked directly at Kate, for word had filtered into the business press that she had been the one to uncover what Ed and Steve had been up to. Mike’s public relations team spun that bit of information as proof of Kate’s ruthless desire to get ahead at all costs. “I will not tolerate my employees going behind my back to dig up dirt on other employees. We will have one team and one mission.”
The comment, of course, was meant to elicit a response from Kate. When Mike played that card during the run-up to the shareholder meeting, her people played the news as proof of her willingness to expose anything not meeting the highest ethical standards. Kate folded her hands together, continued to smile through Mike’s comments. She wasn’t about to rise to his bait.
Pat Dyson asked if Mike thought a go-go shop like Keiffer might continue those kinds of returns in a choppy and treacherous market. Kate thought Mike dissembled a bit in the answer, wondered whether the question meant Pat had come over to her column. She made a note to thank him for distracting the audience away from the issue of Steve and Ed.
Kate opened her presentation with the PowerPoint she’d taken around the country for the past two weeks. “The world has changed since Jack and I talked about Drake’s future last winter. As Pat just said, the financial landscape is shifting.”
Kate had wondered before the meeting what to say about Ed. Many of the people in the room had invested with him for decades. He’d earned them millions. Most were shaking their heads over the idiocy of his trading in Steve’s offerings, but were prepared to write it off to petty larceny. Punishments had been meted out. Restitution had been made.
“Drake has hit a rough patch and we’ve taken our lumps in the press of late for some unfortunate missteps. We shouldn’t hide from them, but we also shouldn’t ignore that we’re standing on very tall and very broad shoulders and on the solid foundation Ed and Jack spent their careers building.”
There was a round of applause. Jack stood to acknowledge the recognition. He felt hollowed that Ed couldn’t be there to accept the recognition, for he had earned the moment with over forty years of tough labor. Jack nodded at Kate, to thank her for acknowledging Ed. It was a gracious gesture, but to Kate it was a simple comment when compared to the way Michael Hirsch forgave Chris Franklin’s father his sins.
“Shops like Drake need to be nimble and agile and to have the conviction we can execute the right steps. The Roths weathered change over the years through two wars and two recessions. We’re in a tough market now, but I’m certain we’ll thrive under even the harshest of market conditions. If I didn’t believe that with all my heart I wouldn’t ask for your support,” Kate said.
Kate felt Michael Hirsch’s gentle presence at her side as she ran through the rest of the slides, promising both results and an absolute commitment to bringing them about.
Mike Conklin extended his hand. It was the voters’ turn. They had thirty minutes to cast their ballots. It would take another fifteen or twenty to count the tally. Kate remained on the dais, pulled out the picture of Sarah at Montserrat, ran her fingertip over the poppies. She needed to do something with her hands. She began doodling her kids’ names in different scripts. Peter. First with a question mark and then without one. And then with a heart. A stick figure of a man holding a little boy’s hand. Peter and Mack.
David Blakely moved toward Jack. Their heads bowed toward each other’s. They spoke with some animation for a minute or two, shook hands, nodded. Jack smiled, the look of a contented man. He looked toward the dais. He avoided Mike and instead focused his gaze on Kate. She brought his brother down and yet he just agreed she would shepherd the company he nurtured into the beautiful uncertainty of what lay ahead. He smiled, the first time she’d seen him do that since the troubles began.
Kate knew in that instant Mike had fallen short, and Drake’s future was hers to guide. Jack was moving toward her. She had only enough time for one email. Sarah, Mack, and Peter.
We did it, guys. We did it. If we did this we can do anything
.
EPILOGUE
MONTSERRAT, MAY
Michael and Bibi Hirsch couldn’t be more gracious hosts. Kate felt as though Sarah and Mack had found a new set of grandparents.
They were together, as Michael said they always were at this time of year, for the visit to Montserrat. Marta was seeing an architect, and they wandered around the grounds by themselves. Eric and Andrew each had boys close to Mack’s age, and while they couldn’t speak each other’s languages, they could laugh and kick a soccer ball through the poppy fields and chase Bibi’s beagle Abby into the trees.
The day was warm and bright, the way a day to remember for the rest of your life should be. Kate was walking slowly with Bibi. Sarah lingered behind with Michael Hirsch, holding his hand and talking as if they’d known each other their entire lives.
“My husband is constantly bringing home newspaper or internet reports about your exploits at your firm. You’re certainly keeping yourself busy.” Bibi wore a large straw hat with a red ribbon the color of the poppies around the brim. The sky was brilliantly blue, with a few high clouds Courbet might have painted after standing back from the canvas and wondering what would make his picture perfect. The church was a massive gray stone building set against the rugged peaks that gave the monastery its name. Kate dismissed all the news accounts with modesty and a shrug.
“It’s a pity your husband couldn’t join us.”
“He’s so far away. It would take him three full days of travel to get here and back to where he’s working at the moment. Perhaps next year.” Globalization had become their cover. The Chinese gobbling up everything was so much easier to explain than one more marriage off the rails. They still needed to invest the time to figure out where they were headed. Something always got in the way. How convenient of all those somethings.
“This place is part of us. I can’t remember a time when we didn’t visit in early May. We so love to see the poppies in bloom. Michael is more relaxed here than almost anywhere else.”
Bibi took Kate’s arm. She turned her slowly toward the café, asked Kate if she’d like a bite to eat. “My husband is always so full of mischief.” Kate didn’t understand the comment, but was looking forward to a lazy afternoon lunch. A long table was set with places for everyone, even a bowl for the dog. Mack moved the bowl next to the chair he’d chosen. A bright red canopy sheltered them from the sun.
Michael sat at the head of the table, Kate to his right. He asked everyone to join hands. He smiled. “I’m never certain what sort of prayer we can offer in this most Catholic of places, for we have so many different faiths around this table, and that’s just our family. But regardless of the God who answers our prayers, we all are graced by his presence. Kate and Sarah and Mack, we welcome you into our family.”
He raised his glass. The others followed. After they sipped their wine, he added, “But Mack, you have to give Abby back to Bibi before you leave.”
Kate was so caught up in her conversations with Michael and Bibi she barely noticed the meal moving from one course to the next. Sarah and Michael eyed each other as conspirators. The combination of the heat and the wine made Kate feel as though she were sleepwalking.
Dishes were cleared, but no one left the table or, for that matter, the café. The musicians took their place on the stage, a cello, a violin, and a guitar. Their music was jazzy, with a decidedly Spanish flavor. A small crowd gathered outside the canopy.
After a few pieces by the ensemble, Michael clicked his knife against his wine glass. He spoke first in Catalan and then in English. “Although we could listen to our friends on the stage all afternoon, we have a special event I’m honored to be able to announce. My dear friend Sarah Brewster, who is an accomplished cellist in her own right, has written a short sonata to celebrate the friendship of our families.”
Kate inhaled at the words.
Sarah rose from her chair. She looked serious and determined. Kate was confused, but too swept up in the tenderness of the moment to do anything other than to watch her daughter with her mouth open. She didn’t notice that Eric had opened his laptop at a table near the stage.
The cellist was a short man in a bright blue shirt. He offered both his bow and his chair to Sarah. He bent his head slightly and moved to the side of the stage.
Sarah spoke. Michael translated. “Several months ago my mother promised she would introduce me to a man who could teach me how to stare down my fears. She said we’d meet in May. Mr. Hirsch and I started emailing and then talking, though, about how we might create something special to honor both my mother’s election and this joyous moment in our families’ lives. This small piece evolved out of our discussions. I hope you enjoy it.”
The crowd applauded. Kate grabbed Michael’s right hand when he returned to his chair. He put his left hand on top of them both. “It’s called Across Another Generation.”
Sarah bent over her cello. The violinist and the tall man with the guitar followed behind, surrounding her notes with theirs. To Kate, it seemed they had rehearsed for months.
The waiters stood along the edge of the bar holding their trays respectfully at their sides. The crowd sat still in their chairs, as impressed by the quality of the music as by the idea it had been written by a twelve-year-old. Bibi folded her hands in front of her lips as if in prayer. Even Marta smiled at Kate for the first time.