I smile. “Simon’s father didn’t trust me.”
That seems to spark Christian’s interest, his eyes lighting up. Am I a naughty girl?
I don’t know, am I?
“He figured that if I really loved Simon, I wouldn’t mind waiting ten years for the money. And if I was in it for the money, as he suspected, I wouldn’t be willing to wait ten years.”
He doesn’t answer, but he sees the logic. And he’s thinking there must be a healthy amount of money in that trust. But he hasn’t asked. Not yet. His website, the small print, says that the minimum investment for his services is ten million dollars. On the phone, the receptionist said the same thing but added that Christian was sometimes willing to make exceptions. I told her that ten million wouldn’t be a problem.
“And you haven’t grown on Simon’s father over the years?” he asks me, smiling.
“Oh, Simon’s father passed away before we were even married.”
“Ah, sorry to hear that. And now you’ve been married ten years,” he says. “Or you will be, come November third.”
“Come November third,” I say, “I can spend that money however I want, whenever I want, on whatever I want. And I want to get it as far away from that stupid bank and that condescending trustee with his bullshit about asset protection and conservative—”
I catch myself getting carried away.
“Sorry,” I say. “I might be . . . a little bitter.”
“I don’t blame you,” he says. “You’ve been a second-class citizen in your own marriage.”
I nod. “Not that Simon wants it that way. He doesn’t have a choice. He can’t change the terms of the trust. But yeah, a second-class citizen, that’s a really good way of putting it.”
He raises a hand. “I should keep my opinions to myself.”
“No, really, that sums up how I’ve felt.”
I lean forward. It’s probably time to cut to the chase.
“Let me ask you something, Mr. Newsome. When that trust becomes community property on November third, does that mean I can spend the money without Simon’s approval? Or even without his knowledge?”
I asked that question three times previously today and got the same answer each time. First, they’d have to see the language of the trust. Second, generally, if someone is listed on an account, they can spend that money without the approval of the other account holder. But third, it’s probably best to include the other account holder in the conversation to avoid disputes on the back end, including potential litigation—litigation that could include the investment adviser.
Christian Newsome doesn’t immediately answer. He presumably has the same response, more or less, at the ready. But he’s not thinking about the legal niceties. He’s thinking about what kind of person I am to be asking that question. And he doesn’t seem particularly bothered. A tiny smirk plays on his face for one beat.
“There are ways to make that happen, yes,” he says. “And call me Christian.”
I look around the office, the rolling indices from the various stock exchanges, the diplomas from Harvard, the certifications from the state agencies. All these guys are alike in so many ways.
But not in every way.
“Christian, that’s the best answer I’ve heard all day.”
I take the three business cards I put on his desk and make a show of ripping each of them in half.
“And you should probably call me Vicky,” I say.
16
Simon
I walk a mile and a half from the law school down to the Chicago Title & Trust Building on Clark and Randolph in the Loop. I take a longer route so I can travel along one of my favorite spots, the concrete promenade on the lakefront, the turbulent water to my left, the cars flying past me on Lake Shore Drive to my right. Poisonous clouds cover the sky, but that hasn’t stopped the cyclists and Rollerbladers and joggers shooting past each other north and south just below me. I do love this city.
The building has a different name now, but a lot of people still call it the Chicago Title & Trust Building. That’s what it was called when my father had a law firm here in the nineties. It was the firm he opened on his own, after splitting off from his partners over some dispute. Back then, a bunch of law firms had offices in this building. Maybe they still do.
I remember coming here with him on a Saturday once. We took the Green Line downtown—itself an adventure, especially on weekends—and rode the elevator up to the seventeenth floor. He had a suite in the middle of that floor. I remember the frosted glass door and how cool it seemed with law offices of theodore dobias stenciled in a fancy font.
That was back when Dad was “scrapping,” as he’d call it. Personal injury and workers comp, mostly. Car crashes and slip-and-falls and stuff like that. He even did some criminal, mostly DUIs and possession cases. He had to bone up on the Fourth Amendment, but fortunately he had my mother for that. Mostly he was an ambulance chaser.
Were you injured at work? Then you need someone on your side!
Luckily, he never ran any schlocky commercials. I never saw his face on the side of a bus.
Then he hit the motherlode, a massive electrical-injury case that made him millions. He changed office space. He changed a lot of things.
Inside the Chicago Title & Trust Building, I grab a Starbucks in the lobby and plop down on one of their leather couches.
I pull out the green phone I just bought in Indiana and slide in the SIM card. For the first time ever, I turn on the green phone, waiting for it to pop to life, the first few seconds of my thousand minutes. I take a deep breath and type:
Testing . . . Testing . . . 1, 2, 3. Testing . . . testing . . . 1, 2, 3. Is this thing on?
I hit “send” and let out my breath.
She’s expecting my text—our first text—at ten this morning. At least I hope she is. I hope she’s sitting there with that hot-pink phone just waiting to hear from me.
My green phone vibrates with her reply. I almost spill my coffee.
Well, hello, stranger
Her replies are in a different font than my texts. Mine are boxy and plain, hers have curves, daintier and more sensual. That seems appropriate. I respond:
Reception ok?
Not the sexiest of responses. Not at all. But Lauren has an old house with thick walls, like a lot of houses in Grace Village. Some people I’ve known in the Village have trouble with cell reception.
She texts back:
On the balcony
Right, the balcony off the master bedroom.
I text:
We have to be careful.
But I don’t send it. My first texts were lame. This whole new exciting way to communicate secretly with your mistress, and I start by asking about her cellular reception? And now I say we have to be careful? Talk about unsexy.
I should have thought this out more. But I didn’t. I erase and type this instead:
We have to be careful. I don’t want to screw anything up for you.
Better, because it shows caring. But still comfortably occupying wet-blanket territory. Up your game, Simon.
I’ve never done anything like this before.
No. It’s true, I haven’t done anything like this before, but no.
Pop quiz: What would someone not feeling insecure say to her right now?
Do you really like me? Are you sure? Cuz I like you tons!
Are you tired? Because you’ve been running through my mind all night.
I’ve never met anyone like you.
I think I love you.