For the next hour while waiting for Wilson to return her call, Emily sat in her living room with the bottle of Shiraz, deconstructing her day and its disturbing end. The first thing she’d done was drop off her completed manuscript, The Psychology of Illusion: Perception, Bias, and Assumed Truths, at Random House a week earlier than planned. Then she did some last minute shopping on Fifth Avenue. After grabbing a bite to eat at Café Europa on Fifty-Seventh Street, she took a cab to her office at Columbia University where she packed up her remaining personal items, saw a few long-standing clients, and said good-bye to colleagues. In between these preparations to leave for Boston, she reminisced and obsessed about Wilson. No matter what happened in their lives or how many other people they dated, it seemed they kept coming back to each other. Their physical chemistry had been apparent from the first day they met, but it was a deep emotional and spiritual connection that bonded them, despite their very strong-willed natures. They were both fiercely independent people who didn’t want anyone telling them what to do. The consequence, not surprisingly, had been an on-again, off-again relationship with some rather painful arguments. While packing items from her office, she began recounting their last big argument eight months earlier, the one that had led to postponing their wedding.
Wilson had flown to New York City for the weekend. During dinner at a trendy Upper West Side restaurant, they began commiserating about how little time they spent together. Several minutes later, after having fully vented their relationship woes, Wilson had asked his dispiriting question.
“Should we consider postponing the wedding until our schedules get lighter?”
Emily became emotional, launching them into a dialogue neither one of them would soon forget.
“I can’t believe you’d consider putting us through this again,” she said.
“Through what?” he said.
“Through another breakup,” she said, throwing her hands into the air.
“This is not a breakup,” he said, reaching for her hand, but she withdrew it.
“Seems like one to me.”
“Why always assume the worst?”
“Experience!” she said, loud enough for the waiter to come to the table and ask if everything was okay.
“Look,” he said in a soft voice, leaning across the table. “As long as I’m in Chicago traveling around the world for Kresge and you’re in New York writing books and counseling patients, getting married is only going to make us more frustrated.”
“So you want me to give up my practice and move to Chicago?”
“No! I’m just asking whether it makes sense to postpone the wedding until I can move to New York.”
“Interesting word, postpone. What does it mean? Defer? Delay? Hold back? What are you holding back, Wilson?”
“I’m not holding anything back. I’m trying to avoid something that could make us feel guiltier than we already do about putting our professional lives first.”
“And what’s that? Commitment?”
He frowned at her. “Don’t do this, Emily.”
“I’m not doing anything. You’re doing it.”
“I just asked a question. What I wanted was a conversation, not an argument.”
“You’re right. Cancel the wedding. We’re not ready for this,” she said, standing up. She took off her engagement ring and placed it in the middle of the table. Then she walked out the door and hailed a taxi. Wilson got a hotel room in the Upper West Side for the night.
Early the next morning, door chimes yanked Emily from her sleep. She came to the door a little groggy, still struggling to tie her robe. It was Wilson with a peace offering. Coffee and hot croissants from the Silver Moon Bakery. He put his arms around her, telling her he was sorry and that he wanted to get married as soon as possible. She said she was sorry, too, and that he was right. They should wait until their lives were less out of control before they discussed marriage again.
After a day immersed in their passions, they became more rational and grounded, deciding to postpone the wedding indefinitely. It had all seemed so logical at the time. For the next eight months they both pursued their careers with a vengeance. The last time they’d been together was one hundred and six days ago.
Emily looked at the clock. It had been an hour since she left messages for Wilson. As she took another swallow of wine, her cell phone rang right on cue. It was Wilson’s ID. Thank God.
“Emily, you okay?” Wilson said, concerned by the tone of voice in her message. But he didn’t turn the scrambler on. He was in no mood for games. Besides, Emily knew the phones were monitored.
“It’s so good to hear your voice,” Emily said, her voice cracking slightly.
“You sound frazzled. I know I’m asking a lot to have you drop everything and come to…”
She interrupted, “It’s not that, Wilson. There’s no place I’d rather be right now.”
“What is it, Em?”
“A man with a gun followed me into the foyer of my apartment building tonight.”
“Oh God! Did he hurt you?”
“No. I’m an emotional wreck, but he didn’t hurt me. He gave me a message for you.”
“What did he say?” Wilson said, his stomach twisting.
“He said: tell your boyfriend to stay out of any investigation into Daniel Redd’s death or what happened to his father in Sun Valley. Both of you will live longer that way.”
“That was it?”
Emily hesitated a moment. “Then he said: goodnight, Ms. Klein. Please forgive the intrusion. After that he left,” she said, deciding to tell him about the gun barrel along her chin when they were together. She was well acquainted with Wilson’s dragon-slayer side. The last thing she wanted was for him to do something irrational, based solely on impulsive emotion—something that could turn out to be stupid.
“God, I’m so sorry, Em. The same message was given to my mother yesterday over the phone. I didn’t mention it when we talked because I didn’t want to worry you. Things are obviously getting more serious…”
“Whatever it is, we’ll deal with it together,” Emily said, interrupting again. “I’m fine now. I just needed to hear your voice.”
“You’re not fine,” Wilson said, his voiced raised. “You were just threatened at gunpoint.”
“Wilson. I promise you, I’m fine. I’ll finish packing in the morning. My plane gets in at two—United 1011.”
“I hate bringing you into this nightmare.”
“I want to be with you.”
“I love you, Em. More than words…”
“I’ll be there in less than fourteen hours, then you can show me,” she said playfully. “I adore you, Wilson. Please be careful.”
How could I have been so stupid to risk losing her? he asked himself. “I’ll be there waiting.”
After saying good-bye, Emily felt relieved, though the fear that had gripped her in the lobby continued to linger. Nothing mattered more than her relationship with Wilson, no matter how difficult or dangerous his circumstances had become.
18
Wilson – Cambridge, MA
Wilson found his mother in the backyard with the gardener, preparing for spring planting. It was an unusually warm and sunny morning for late March in Boston. He watched her from the verandah. The sun highlighted the copper undertones in her short brown hair, making her seem more youthful than usual. From her outfit—sandals, Capri jeans, and a bright pink jacket over a floral top—she seemed eager for the newness of spring. Wilson was glad to see her up and active.
He reminisced a moment about her motherly tenderness. She had always been there for him, attending to his every need. Regrettably, he’d grown up like most children, more or less oblivious to her personal aspirations and dreams outside of being a wife and mother. In the years after Wilson left home for college, she’d become more introspective. But he’d made no serious effort to find out why. Now he wondered whether it had something to do with his father’s business activities. Wilson needed to
find out, and she was the only one who could tell him. He walked out into the spacious yard, still unnoticed.
“Good morning,” he called out as he got closer.
“Hi, dear, did you get some rest? You got in so late,” she said, looking at him with warm but strained eyes. “Anita said Emily called. Is everything okay?”
There could be no more holding back, he thought. “I talked to her last night when I got home,” he said before hesitantly proceeding. “She was threatened at gunpoint in the lobby of her apartment building. She received the same message you did.”
“Oh no!” she said, horrified. “Did he do anything to her?”
“No, he didn’t touch her. But the emotional trauma that both of you have suffered is unforgiveable.”
“She needs to be here with you, Wilson.”
“I’m picking her up at the airport this afternoon.”
“Thank God,” she said, her voice breaking. Tears began filling her eyes; she turned toward the verandah. “I can’t believe all this is happening. When is it going to end?”
Wilson took her arm and they walked to the house. He loathed the idea of subjecting her to an inquisition of kinds, but he had no choice. “I’m sorry Mother, but I need to ask you some questions.”
As their eyes fused he could see her grief. There was a prolonged silence before she finally said, “About your father?”
“Yes.”
“I may not have the answers you want,” she said, removing the gloves from her hands and setting them on the slate stone verandah. “Let’s go upstairs,” she whispered.
Once inside the belfry library with the door closed and the nullifier on, they sat down at the round table. Wilson began, “Why did he change his will?”
“He called it a prudent update of our legal affairs, since I had no interest in being involved in any business decisions. I knew he was trying to protect me, but that wasn’t the only reason.”
Wilson sat back studying his mother. “Mom, I need to know everything. No more secrets.”
Tears welled up in her eyes again and began to trickle down her cheeks. She reached for his hand. “Just give me a minute, I’ll be fine.”
Wilson took her hand in his. Dressing down CEOs was child’s play compared to this.
She wiped her eyes and nose with a handkerchief from her jacket pocket. “Okay,” she said.
Wilson took a deep breath. “Did you know that his net worth is over seventy billion dollars?”
“Yes,” she said evenly, without a hint of surprise.
Wilson wrestled with whether to show her the letter his father had left him. He decided against it for now. He reached into his pocket, removing the folded copies he’d made of the press clippings on Congressman McFadden and the pages about his great-grandfather’s death. He handed them to her.
His mother took a few moments to study the copies before leaning back in her chair and closing her eyes. She sighed before opening her eyes again, then in a monotone voice she said, “Before your grandfather died, he regretted sharing this with your father.”
“Why?” Wilson asked, remembering little about his grandfather, who’d died when he was six years old. All he could recall was that he had been kind and gentle and went by the name of Wilson.
“Your father was determined to become a writer when he was younger, but his father insisted that he begin presiding over the family’s assets and businesses,” she said calmly, but her eyes were intense and roaming. She held up the copies of press clippings and journal pages he’d given her. “He used this to convince your father. When he learned that his grandfather had been murdered by the same people who killed McFadden and Boyles, he vowed to change everything. He made drastic changes in the family business, growing it exponentially. He was a natural, as if born to it…” Her voice trailed off.
Wilson remained silent, waiting for his mother to resume her story.
“When your grandfather was near death, suffering from leukemia, he forced a public stock offering of Fielder Industries, which controlled the family’s major businesses. He’d hoped your father would sell his shares and return to a literary life. He asked me more than once to forgive him for taking your father away from a more tranquil existence. He was afraid your father would waste his entire life pursuing wealth and seeking revenge,” she said, her words becoming more emotion-filled. “I shared the same fear, but by then it was too late. After quadrupling the profits of Fielder Industries in less than two years, your father realized that his business savvy offered him a better way to change the world. When his father died, Charles did sell his shares in Fielder Industries, but he didn’t return to a literary life. He started Fielder & Company.”
“Why didn’t we talk about this when I was growing up?” Wilson asked, leaning forward perplexed.
“Because of his experience with his own father,” she said, her eyes were gentle, sympathetic. “He was a lot like you growing up—rebellious and easily upset over any form of injustice or inequity. He swore he’d never coerce you the way his father had coerced him. The irony is that you still chose business as a career, driven by his same desires to cleanse a corrupt system.”
“I can’t believe we never talked about this…”
“We did. All the time. Especially you and your father, only without the family history,” she said, looking away wistfully. “He didn’t want you to become burdened like he was.”
“Burdened because of Harry’s murder?” Wilson asked, burying his hurt over being shut out of family secrets.
His mother shifted her gaze to the ocular window overlooking Cambridge Common. “When your father began assuming the reins at Fielder Industries and started attending business school, his resentment and bitterness changed him. The passion he once had for writing evolved into an obsession for creating wealth. It was all he talked about. He felt more and more responsible for correcting the inequities in society—just like you.”
“So he didn’t tell me about my great-grandfather to keep me from making the same vow?” Wilson said sarcastically.
“Your father gave his life to this obsession. Neither one of us wanted the same thing happening to you.”
“Well, so much for that fucking plan…”
“Wilson, don’t. We made mistakes. We were only trying to do what we thought was best for you and Rachel. I’m so sorry,” she said. She began crying again.
Wilson’s anger softened. “It’s not your fault. I grew up with the same damn burden, despite your efforts to shield me. I know you and Dad worried about my anger. And you were right, if I’d known about my great-grandfather when I was younger, it would have made me that much angrier,” Wilson said, pausing to reflect. “Where are Harry’s memoirs now?”
“Only your father knows,” she said. “His father charged him with keeping them safe until they could be put to good use.”
Wilson shook his head in disbelief.
“Now you know what’s been driving your father for so many years” she said, gently touching his arm. “His grandfather’s story had an enormous influence on him. You know that he taught American literature and philosophy at Harvard before starting Fielder Industries. What you don’t know is how he speculated on stocks and futures prior to the crash of 1929 and then acquired troubled business assets during the depression. He considered the windfall profits to be both a blessing and a curse. He promised to preserve the blessing for posterity and avoid the curse by giving back to society, trying to make amends for his enormous gains. The company he started in the early 1930s grew so rapidly he never went back to full-time teaching, although he lectured regularly at Harvard and MIT until he died. I only knew him through your father, and your father only knew him through his father and the memoirs. He died when your father was only three.” She paused, caught in reflection. “Your father and I used to talk about him a lot. We stopped when you were still young.”
“Why? Because of me?”
“No, not entirely,” she said, tears filling her eyes again. “
I love your father very much, but I couldn’t live with his obsession. We found great joy in you and Rachel, but we’ve lived in different worlds for most of our lives. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t really know what’s happened at Fielder & Company in the past several years.”
“You don’t need to…”
“It’s okay, Wilson,” she said softly. “I was afraid of becoming consumed by his burden so I withdrew to a safe distance. He wanted me to be involved the way I was with his writing, but it wasn’t the same,” she said, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief. “I should have never distanced myself. I could have been stronger.”
“Listen to me, Mother,” Wilson said, reaching across the table for her hand, which she took and squeezed for a moment. “When I met with him in his office last summer to talk about Kresge & Company, we also talked about marriage. Emily and I had just postponed the wedding. He told me how much he adored you and was looking forward to spending more time with you…living more simply. He actually talked about retirement and writing books. There was a weariness about him. I noticed it, but I didn’t say anything. I should have probed further. Both of us should have been stronger.”
By this time his mother was sobbing. Wilson felt like a heel for making her cry so much, but it didn’t stop him. When she regained composure, he continued, albeit reluctantly.
“Did you know Davis Zollinger, the CEO of Dutton Industries?”
“Yes. He was one of your father’s clients.”
“Did you know he was found dead in his office six months ago?”
“Yes,” she said, nodding her head and dabbing her nose. “Your father said he’d crossed the line, but I wasn’t sure what he meant. I decided a long time ago not to ask too many questions. Whenever I did, your father would tell me more than I wanted to know. I don’t know what to tell you, Wilson,” she said, her voice breaking again.
The Insiders Page 12
