“It doesn’t, it doesn’t, it doesn’t. But . . .”
Her mother knew and hadn’t told her. Knew and let her think he’d simply vanished, stopped paying child support, left them both without a thought.
And he hadn’t.
She had to wait until her hands stopped shaking, her eyes stopped burning.
Then she went back to the workstation, organized the papers, read through the correspondence, studied the latest monthly report.
The resentment, the grief coalesced into a low and steady burn of fury.
Taking out her phone, she called the number for the account manager.
“Benton Ellsworth.”
“Yes, Mr. Ellsworth, this is Breen Kelly. I—”
“Ms. Kelly! What a surprise. It’s so nice to actually speak with you. I hope your mother is well.”
“I’m sure she is. Mr. Ellsworth, I’ve just become aware that I have an account with your firm with funds and investments totaling three million, eight hundred and fifty-three thousand, eight hundred and twelve dollars and, um, sixty-five cents. Is this correct?”
“I can get you the account value as of today, but I’m not sure what you mean you’ve become aware.”
“Is this my money?”
“Yes, of course. I—”
“Why is my mother’s name also on the account?”
“Ms. Kelly.” He spoke slowly. “The account was opened when you were a minor, and you expressed the wish to leave the account in your mother’s hands. I can promise you, she’s been scrupulous in overseeing your investments.”
“How did I express this wish?”
“Ms. Wilcox explained that you had no desire to deal with the investments, and you never communicated with me or the firm to request the account be turned over to you exclusively.”
“Because I didn’t know it existed until today.”
“I’m sure there’s a misunderstanding. It might be best if I met with you and your mother to sort this out.”
“My mother is out of town, currently at a retreat where she has no access to phone or internet.” And some god somewhere had been looking out for her, Breen thought. “But I think you and I should sort this out.”
“I agree, absolutely. My assistant’s gone for the day, but I can set up an appointment for Monday.”
No, no, she’d lose her courage over the weekend. It would drain. It always did. “How about now?”
“Ms. Kelly, I was on the point of leaving the office myself when I took your call.”
“I’m sorry to inconvenience you, but I think this is urgent. I know it is for me. I want to talk to you, get a better understanding of this . . . situation before I contact a lawyer.”
In the silence, Breen squeezed her eyes shut. Please, she thought, please, don’t make me wait.
“It might be better if we met now, talked this all through. I’m sure, as I said, this is just a misunderstanding. I’ve been told you don’t drive, so—”
“I don’t have a car,” she corrected, “because I can’t afford one. But I’m perfectly capable of getting to your office. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“I’ll meet you downstairs, in the lobby. We’re a small firm, Ms. Kelly. Most will have gone for the weekend before you get here.”
“All right. Thank you.”
She hung up before he could change his mind, and sat—shaking again.
“Get your guts up, Breen. Get your stupid guts up, and go.”
She put all the papers she’d stacked in their appropriate files. She left the watering can, left the file drawer open, and went downstairs.
She thought of the bus, how long it would take her to get to the offices in City Center.
Then she did something she’d never done.
She took an Uber.
Traffic was horrible. But then again, it was Friday rush hour. The Uber driver, a woman about her age, chatted, then stopped when Breen just put her head back and closed her eyes.
She wanted to read through the files again, but she’d get carsick. Not a good way to meet the man who was, apparently, her investment broker for the first time.
She needed a plan, but couldn’t think through the distress, the anger. Her schedule for the weekend included—or had—sitting down to pay bills, juggle funds, squeeze them. She’d planned that sad chore for after her workout. At home, as she couldn’t afford a gym membership.
Not just couldn’t afford, she admitted, but felt weird and uncomfortable working out with other people around.
Whatever came of this meeting, she still had bills to pay.
She opened her eyes to see they’d broken out of the worst of the traffic and made some progress along the river. The sun, dipping down in the west, still beamed, hit the bridges, the water, made it all shine to her eyes.
No rain after all, she thought, and realized she’d left her raincoat in her mother’s kitchen.
Had she remembered to lock up, reset the alarm?
After a moment’s anxiety, she closed her eyes again, walked herself back.
Yes, yes, she’d done that. All that was just autopilot.
When the car pulled up in front of the dignified brick building in the shadows of steel towers, she tipped the driver.
There went Sunday night pizza.
When she crossed the sidewalk, a man opened the door.
He stood, tall and lanky in a navy pin-striped suit, crisp white shirt, bold red tie. For some reason the gray, salted through his brown hair, made her feel easier.
He was older, she thought. Experienced. He knew what he was doing.
She sure as hell didn’t.
“Ms. Kelly.” He held out a hand.
“Yes, hello. Mr. Ellsworth.”
“Please come right in. My office is on the second floor. Do you mind the stairs?”
“No.”
She saw a quiet, carpeted lobby with a glossy reception counter, several oversize leather chairs, a few big green plants in big terracotta pots.
“I want to apologize for any part I’ve played in this misunderstanding,” Ellsworth began as they walked up to the second floor. “Jennifer—your mother—indicated you weren’t interested in the details of the account.”
“She lied.”
That hadn’t been in the plan—whatever the plan might be. But it came right out of Breen’s mouth. “To you, if you’re telling me the truth. To me by omission. I didn’t know there was an account.”
“Yes, well.” Ellsworth gestured toward an open door.
His office, bigger than the living room in her apartment and airy due to the big windows, held an old mahogany desk beautifully refinished, a small leather sofa, two visitor chairs.
A counter held a fancy coffee maker. Framed photos—obviously family—covered a floating shelf.
“How about some coffee?”
“Yes, thank you. Milk, no sugar.”
“Have a seat,” he invited while he walked to the coffee machine.
“I have all the files,” she began as she sat, pushed her knees together because they trembled. “From what I can see, the account was opened in 2006. That’s when my parents separated.”
“That’s correct.”
“Can you tell me if the deposits starting then were child-support payments?”