Uncharted Waters

by Rosemary McCracken

  I had been furious when Laura had announced her pregnancy. Furious at how irresponsible she and her boyfriend, Kyle, had been. Furious at her assumption that everything would work out fine, and that I would help make it happen. My daughter didn’t seem to understand that motherhood would change her life. And that it would change my life, too.

  But when she had hemorrhaged in the summer, and it looked like she might lose the baby, I was beside myself. I realized how important this child had become to me. Then an ultrasound showed that she was expecting a boy. This was no longer just a baby; it was my grandson! I decided that Laura and her son would live with me until she finished school. I knew I’d be playing a major role in raising this child, but I was okay with that. I was looking forward to being a grandmother.

  Which reminded me: I had to start earning an income. I had a home to run, and children to support. Tommy, my eight-year-old adopted son, had family money that would pay for his education, but he needed a home after his mother’s death earlier that year.

  I decided right then and there to take the next step toward buying Dean’s business. Tomorrow I would have lunch with his assistant.

  I took a deep breath. “I’m thinking of buying a business.”

  “You won’t be working with Stéphane?”

  “No, I’ll be working on my own. I’ll be an independent financial planner. Stéphane is staying at Norris Cassidy.”

  “Oh.” Laura appeared to think about that for a few moments. “You’ll be completely on your own? You won’t have a secretary—”

  “Assistant. They’re called administrative assistants these days.”

  “You won’t have an assistant?”

  “I’ll need an assistant. But that’s the only help I’ll have.”

  She leaned forward. “Mom, I can be your assistant.”

  I placed a hand over hers. “It’s sweet of you to offer, but you’ll need to spend your time with the baby before you return to school next year. And I can’t have a baby in the office.”

  “I’ll work from home. That way I can spend time with the baby and work for you. I’ll learn a lot. Maybe I’ll become a financial planner like you.”

  I wanted Laura to go to university and check out all her career options. Not tie herself to a career she knew nothing about. Or tie me to an assistant with a demanding baby.

  “My assistant will also be my receptionist,” I said. “She’ll greet clients when they come to the office, take calls from them.”

  “Isn’t that all automated now?”

  “The personal touch still goes a long way.” I paused. “And the business I’m looking at comes with an assistant.”

  “Comes with an assistant? Like comes with fries or comes with salad?”

  “It means the owner will only sell to someone who promises to keep his assistant on for the next 12 months.”

  “What’s so special about this assistant?”

  “Sam’s been with this business for three years, so she knows how a financial-planning practice works.”

  “I could learn that.”

  “I thought you enjoyed working in Marilyn’s boutique,” I said.

  Marilyn Winters, her friend’s mother, liked having Laura in her shop because she looked stunning in the line of maternity wear she’d recently brought in. My daughter, a tall, slim blonde, was one of those fortunate women who look great even when they’re several months pregnant. Laura had been spared the puffy face and ankles that I’d suffered during my pregnancies.

  “It’s okay for now. But I like what you’ve told me about your work. You enjoy it, and you’re helping other people.”

  “A year or two from now, I may be able to hire you for the summer or even part-time during the school year. Right now, though, I need an assistant with me in the office. Sam knows the clients, so she’ll be a big help in the transition.”

  Laura took her mug over to the sink. “I’m looking forward to meeting Wonder Woman Sam,” she said, and headed upstairs to her bedroom.

  Chapter Four

  Dean Monaghan’s financial statements and tax returns were in my in-box when I booted up my computer the next day. I downloaded them onto a flash drive and sent him an e-mail saying I’d received them. And I asked if I could meet Sam for lunch.

  A return message landed 10 minutes later. Dean had made a 12:30 reservation for two at Il Padrino. Sam, he said, would pick up the tab.

  Toronto’s Annex neighborhood is a lively enclave just north of the University of Toronto. Its tree-lined residential streets are filled with large, Victorian brick-and-sandstone homes, many of them subdivided into apartments. Bloor Street West, the main thoroughfare, is lined with pubs and inexpensive restaurants. That year, Il Padrino was the classiest eatery on the strip.

  The maître d’ escorted me to a small table against a side wall, where Sam was waiting. I had met her only briefly in Dean’s office, so I took a moment to study her as I slid into the chair across from her. Her face was striking rather than pretty, with high cheekbones and almond-shaped green eyes. She wore lip gloss and a touch of blush on her cheeks, and she’d outlined her eyes with kohl. She’d brightened up her inexpensive brown trouser suit with a string of turquoise beads.

  “This is a treat,” she said. “I don’t get out for lunch often.”

  “You don’t get out for lunch?” I asked as we looked over our menus. “Sounds like your boss is a slave driver.”

  She laughed. “Dean is the best boss in the world. I owe him a lot. Like, he hired me at a really bad time in my life.”

  She put down the menu, and met my eyes. “I don’t take a lunch break because I work six hours a day, 8:30 till 2:30. I work those hours so I can tutor kids after school.”

  I was impressed. “You tutor kids?”

  “I help inner-city kids with math. It’s a subject I’ve always been good at.”

  “As a volunteer?”

  “I don’t get paid, if that’s what you mean.”

  We placed our orders, and I moved into interview mode.

  “I’m sure you know that I’m looking at buying Dean’s business,” I said.

  Sam smiled. “I certainly do. And Dean told me to answer all your questions.”

  “Do you like working in a financial-planning practice?”

  “Before we go any farther,” she said, “there’s something you need to know.”

  Her face told me I wasn’t going to like what she had to say. I nodded for her to go on.

  “Four years ago, I worked as a clerk in the patient records office at Oak Ridges Health Center in Lomanville.” She named a town just east of Toronto. “I was able to access the records of pregnant women and women who’d recently delivered. I sold their names and contact info to a financial advisor at Jensen & Fyfe. He pitched education savings plans to them.”

  My mind was racing as the waitress served us our plates of pasta. We both picked at our food for a minute. Then Sam took a sip of water and continued talking.

  “I pleaded guilty to selling securities without a license, although I didn’t know a thing about selling securities. I just passed on names.” Her green eyes were enormous, and the freckles stood out on her pale face.

  The case had been big news at the time. Jensen & Fyfe had fired its advisor, who got a 90-day prison sentence and a $100,000 fine. Nothing close to the penalty he deserved. The hospital worker—Sam, I now knew—had been caught when her supervisor found data stored in the memory of a photocopier and printed a hard copy. The printout contained the names of maternity patients, their personal information, and their babies’ dates of birth. It also had Sam’s log-in information, and the dates and times she accessed the database, which she had no work-related reason for doing.

  “What you did is called unregistered trading of securities,” I said. “A breach of the Ontario Securities Act. You also breached the trust your employer had in you, and the trust patients have in hospital workers. You violated patient privacy.”

  Sam looked away. “I
was fined $50,000 and sentenced to 100 hours of community service. At $6 a name and $25 for every woman who actually bought a savings plan, I didn’t make anywhere near $50,000.”

  “You got off easy.” And because it was only considered a quasi-criminal offence, she didn’t have a criminal record.

  She sighed. “I’m still paying off the loan my parents took out for the fine.”

  I wondered if she realized the seriousness of what she’d done. “You passed on confidential information about vulnerable women,” I told her. “They had just given birth; it was a stressful time in their lives.”

  She had the grace to lower her eyes.

  How could I work with this woman? My clients would entrust me with intimate details of their lives, and this information might be accessible to anyone who worked in my office. My staff needed to be trustworthy. Sam had proven that she wasn’t.

  “Who was the advisor at Jensen & Fyfe?” I asked.

  “My brother-in-law.”

  “It was his idea for you to give him patients’ names?”

  “Yes. He said we were doing the women a favor, making sure they put money away for their kids’ schooling. I believed him.” She took one look at my face, and quickly added, “Stupid of me, I know.”

  I nodded in agreement. “You were let go from the hospital. You found another job?”

  She nodded. “Waiting tables.”

  “How did you come to work at Monaghan Financial?”

  “My community-service work was tutoring kids in math at Daycrest Community Center. Dean ran its program for underprivileged kids. He had my file; he knew my background. He asked me what I wanted to do with my life.”

  “And he hired you,” I said.

  “Dean liked what I was doing with the kids. I had them look at numbers as dollars and cents, because, like, they understand dollars and cents. Six months later, he hired me. I’m working on a business degree at night, and Dean has been paying my tuition. Once I get my degree, I’ll take courses to be a financial planner. Like Dean.”

  She paused to take a sip of water. “I’m still working with kids at Daycrest. That’s why I leave the office at 2:30.”

  I admired her for pulling herself out of the mess she’d got into, but that didn’t make me want to work with her. Yet there she was, part and parcel of Dean’s business package.

  She hadn’t answered my question about his business. “How do you like working in Dean’s office?” I asked.

  “I love it. I love how he’s helping his clients. He’s doing work I believe in.”

  “Would you like to stay on when Dean sells the business?”

  “I sure would,” she said eagerly. “That’s why I told you about my background. If you buy the business, I don’t want you to think I held anything back.”

  “Anything you’d like to see changed in his practice?”

  “Mmm…” She closed her eyes in concentration. A few seconds later, she was smiling at me. “Nothing,” she said. “Everything’s good.”

  “The clients are easy to work with?”

  “Nothing I can’t handle. If you treat people like you want to be treated, they generally give you no trouble.”

  She gave me a hopeful smile. “I’d really like to stay on. I made a mistake, a huge one, but it won’t happen again.”

  ***

  At home, I looked over the documents Dean had sent me. They gave me a rough idea of what his business was worth, but I needed an expert’s eyes.

  I sent the statements and returns to Geoff Bevan, an accountant in my network of business professionals. For the past few years, we’d been trading business favors on a regular basis.

  Then I called Dean and thanked him for lunch.

  “I hope you liked Sam,” he said.

  “Sam…she’s a bright girl.”

  “She told you about her trouble a few years back?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “Don’t hold it against her. Sam thought she was helping those women put money aside for their kids. She was manipulated by her brother-in-law.”

  “I don’t know if I can trust her with confidential information.”

  “In all the time I’ve worked with Sam, that’s never been a problem.” He paused for a few moments. “She told you about it, didn’t she? Give her marks for honesty. Because Sam comes with my business. She’s a deal breaker.” The subject of Sam appeared to be closed.

  “You said I might be able to speak to a few of your clients,” I said. “I’d like to start with the man who runs the philanthropic foundation.”

  That client had a net worth of several million dollars, and homes in Toronto’s swanky Bridle Path, in cottage country north of Toronto, in New York and in Barbados. And a complex financial situation that would require tax planning, risk management, and cross-border solutions. Working with him would mean a lot of billable hours.

  “Smart choice,” Dean said. “That’s Ben Cordova, and I’m sure he’ll speak to you. Let me find out when he’s available.”

  After dinner, I heard a ping in the study telling me that an e-mail had landed. Geoff had reported that Monaghan Financial’s books appeared to be in order.

  I crafted an e-mail to Jess Sayers, a business appraiser I had heard several people speak of highly. I asked Jess for an estimate of what she would charge to put a value on Dean’s business.

  I was about to shut down when I heard another e-mail land. This one was from Dean.

  “Ben Cordova will meet you for lunch tomorrow. Noon at the York Valley Golf Club.”

  ***

  I couldn’t sleep that night, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. The practice I was buying, the business loan I had to take out to finance it, the assistant I would be saddled with who’d passed confidential information to a scamster, and, on top of it all, Laura’s pregnancy. It all seemed too much to cope with. I needed a strong pair of arms around me. I needed to hear that everything would work out fine.

  I looked at the phone beside my bed and thought of calling Devon Shaughnessy. I’d been involved with him the previous winter, but there were too many miles between us. We both led busy lives, Devon in Stamford, Connecticut, and me in Toronto. After several attempts to juggle our schedules, it had seemed easier to go our separate ways. But that night, I found myself missing him, missing his arms around me. Devon was a kind, gentle man, with broad shoulders and strong arms. And he was a very good listener.

  I punched his number into the phone.

  “Remember me?” I asked.

  “I’d recognize Pat Tierney’s voice 20 years from now. Maybe even 50 if I still had all my marbles. How are you?”

  His voice was a warm caress.

  Devon hadn’t been able to spend even a week at his vacation home in Ontario cottage country that summer. And I’d been too preoccupied with what was going on in my own life to meet him for a weekend in New York as he’d suggested.

  “I should have come down this summer,” I said, “but—”

  “You were busy.”

  “Yeah, I was busy. I was up north, as you know. Laura announced that she was pregnant. A cottage rental scamster was targeting the house where I was staying. And I’d left Norris Cassidy to set up on my own.”

  “You were busy. I wish you’d told me some of this. How is Laura?”

  “She’s well. The baby is due in December, so she’s postponed university until next year.”

  “And Kyle, is he…”

  “Yes, Kyle Shingler is the baby’s father. He and Laura have no plans to marry, but they’re still involved. And they’re looking forward to being parents.”

  “Caller display tells me you’re back in Toronto, or at least you’re there tonight.”

  “I’m back in Toronto, and I’m in the process of buying a financial-planning practice. After I left Norris Cassidy, I was tempted to start a business in cottage country. Tommy could have gone to the local school. But my girls’ lives are in Toronto, and Tommy’s grandmother is here as well. We need to stay close to
family.”

  “Family means everything to you, Pat.”

  “It does.”

  “And now you’re buying a business?”

  “It’s a small business, 68 clients. I need to hire an appraiser.”

  “Going out on your own is a big step.”

  I was just beginning to realize how big a move this was for a woman of 48. “A scary step. I’m heading into uncharted waters. I’ll have to take out a loan against my home.”

  “You’ll succeed, Pat. You have a good head on your shoulders.”

  I wished Devon were there beside me.

  “There’s a couple of conferences up your way this fall,” he said. “Any chance—”

  “Let’s meet up,” I said. “Give me a bit of notice, though. Things may get hectic this fall.”

  That, I realized later, was the understatement of the year.

  Chapter Five

  The next morning, I dressed in a navy suit and a white silk blouse. I wanted to look my best for my lunch with Ben Cordova. There was no guarantee that he would stay with me if I bought Dean’s business, but I wanted to give our first meeting my best shot. Ben was a powerful man, and if I won his trust, he might refer his friends and associates to me.

  I had done my homework the previous evening. Cordova Philanthropies was a venerable foundation that supported visual and performance artists. A grant from Cordova Philanthropies was prestigious. Cordova and Ben’s billable hours were at the top of my mind all that morning.

  When I arrived at the York Valley clubhouse, a tall man in his early 50s with a mane of graying blond hair got up from a window table. In three strides, he was in front of me. “Hello, Pat Tierney.” His tanned face crinkled into a smile.

  He was dressed in jeans and a navy shirt that fit him as only custom-made garments do. The collar was open, the sleeves rolled up. I felt overdressed.

  “You knew who I was,” I said.

  “I know all the regulars here, and you’re not one of them.” He stepped back, his whiskey-colored eyes giving me the once-over. “And you look just like the photo on your website.”