Halt at X: A North of Boston Novel

by Sally Ann Sims

  “Congratulations. Who?”

  “Rachael Cabot,” Warren said.

  Frank eyebrows shot up his brow ridge. How had Warren pulled that off? The Cabot family were the Kennedys of the eighteenth century and had managed to continue to build on that wealth despite the bottom falling out of the whale oil market.

  “The engagement party will be at Pat Weld’s since the Cabot’s are remodeling.”

  “How perfect,” Frank said. More opportunities to get closer to Pat Weld, local venture capitalist, whom he met at Marshallton’s retirement party.

  “No kidding. She’s perfect for me. She’s hot and a Cabot. Getting her Master’s in international affairs at Radcliff. I wasn’t really looking for an old money fiancé, but I’ve been working on a business idea with her brother and, well, one thing led to another.”

  “Money never hurts, huh? Well, again, congrats. When’s the big day?”

  “Valentine’s Day coming up,” Warren said. He checked himself in a black lacquer framed mirror. “Well, I gotta go. Meeting Rachael.”

  They both started for the hall. Then Warren stopped and turned to face Frank.

  “Oh, by the way, I asked for three weeks off around Valentine’s Day. Lucinda said she’d get back to me. That she had to dovetail it with vacation requests already in. But, shit, it’s my honeymoon! Will you — ”

  “No problem. You’ve got it. Give my best to Rachael.”

  “Thanks, Frank.”

  “Things go well, you won’t need to be reporting to Lucinda anymore,” Frank said.

  “I’m your man.” Warren grinned again. Frank nodded.

  “Did you just hear something? A creak?” Frank asked.

  Warren shrugged. “All kinds of creaks in this old pile. What did it sound like?”

  “Probably nothing,” said Frank. He thought he knew all the Thornbough mansion creaks but this was a new one. He felt like he was being watched. Too many windows in that room, Frank thought as they emerged back into the hall. Warren let himself out the back, and Frank returned to the sitting room.

  “We’re done! Ahhhhhh,” Frank said, sitting down and stretching his arms along the top of the couch. Margo was seated at a curvy-legged narrow table under a swirled gilded frame mirror staring at her laptop screen.

  “What are you reading?”

  “The proposal you e-mailed me for the Equine Studies Program. It’s not as tangential as you think, Frank. This could be a moneymaker and a great student draw in this area.”

  “Yeah, but isn’t Tori Bentley just a horse-crazed socialite?”

  “You should go over to Salt Marsh Stable and meet her on her own turf. She’s funding Dr. Augustine in a new research study. Actually, I moved Bally Glen there and I’m impressed. Oh, there’s a few things here and there that I’d change but — ”

  Frank laughed. “I’m sure there’re things at Queen Elizabeth’s stables that you’d change.” He’d meant it lightly, but Margo’s shoulders stiffened. She pulled in her lips and tossed her curl mass back.

  Frank enjoyed calming her storms. “Easy,” he said. “Just kidding.”

  “I’m not kidding. Do this one, Frank. You’re not going to regret it. You have no idea the number of kids whose parents are just looking for places to send their non-booky, horse-obsessed daughters. They’ll more than compensate for the serious ones that will need scholarships but will actually reflect well on P-H when they graduate. Besides, I like Salt Marsh.”

  “Ok,” he said. “I’ll look at the proposal again. How much is rent by the way?”

  “They call it board for horses, Frank. Seven hundred standard, nine fifty training. Forty stalls.”

  “Hmmm,” he said. “The dean’s gotta really be for this.” He didn’t want to owe any favors for this one.

  “No problem,” Margo said. She unfolded herself from the chair, sat next to Frank on the pecan wood couch with its tea-stained jacquard cushions, pulled off her pointy toed ankle boots, tucked her feet under her suit pants, and loosened the cinnamon leaf-patterned chiffon scarf at her neck. Then she shut her eyes for a moment.

  “If you’re as tired as I am, let’s just end with that bit of business. I’m still flying about Fargill. I’m sure they will bite,” Frank said.

  Margo opened her eyes and looked at Frank with pleasure. “Finally,” she said. “Someone’s taking the low-hanging fruit. Ben wouldn’t go anywhere near those guys.”

  “He and I are very different,” Frank said. He fingered her scarf. “Is this silk?”

  “One hundred percent,” she said, her eyes looking into his with a confident curiosity.

  Frank’s phone rang, more softly since he turned it down. He checked the caller ID and put it back in his pocket. He had to be careful. Margo was way too tempting. She was too important to his plans to get personally entangled with. And yet, perhaps there was a way… .

  He managed to send her home at ten-twenty. Checking Fargill’s text message at ten-thirty pushed Margo out of his mind, for the moment.

  Just hired your son.

  Windward Willows

  Aden arrived at Lucinda’s office at four-thirty on Friday after three interviews with major gift officer candidates. She was finishing up a donor phone call, facing the window in her executive chair. Aden glanced over Lucinda’s head out the large window at a sky filled with the clouds he’d heard her refer to as mare’s tails.

  “I know, Sonya! Yes, very exciting now that it’s finally happening. I can’t wait to get your thoughts on these blueprints. See you soon.”

  Lucinda swiveled back to face the door, saw Aden, and smiled broadly, producing those dimples that distracted him.

  “Afternoon, Aden. Like the tie! You know Michaela’s into abstract.”

  Aden dropped into the velvet-covered chair in front of her desk, straightening his silk tie, in swirling caramel and gold, although it did not require straightening.

  “Of course! No sunny harbors guarded by righteous lighthouses for our Mrs. Endicott Weld,” he said, grinning.

  “No sailboats, tiny fishing shacks, beach combers, nor fishermen in nor’easters! Ok. Let’s go over what we have and what we’re doing.”

  “First, coffee. I’m draggin’ ass with these homecoming plans,” Aden said.

  “We have to fill that alumni position to get the pressure off your staff. You’ll have to make the coffee. Beverly’s on vacation,” Lucinda said.

  “Good for her! I don’t think she’s taken one since I was hired. How did you get her to actually go away during the semester?” Aden said, stalking the coffeemaker.

  “I threatened to not let her hold over anymore vacation days. So she booked a flight to Bermuda. The Hamilton Princess Hotel.”

  “That would do it,” Aden said as he pulled out mugs with red lobsters on them. He poured a packet of crystallized brown sugar in hers and a big splash of half-and-half in his. The coffee machine began its reassuring gurgles.

  “Gretel is not going to like me getting home late again. Although Madam Whipple has consented to walk her.”

  Aden lived in the nearby fishing-village-turned-art-colony of Newcester. He had the top two floors, complete with widow’s walk, of a centrally located, fully restored Victorian-era sea captain’s house. He and his tan dachshund mix Gretel, who was not pleased with all the stairs. But Mrs. Whipple was a dog person and that counted for a lot in a landlady.

  “I think she’s getting arthritis in the hind end. Where are the filters? Oh, here. God! Beverly loves to hide things. Hey, what’s this?” Aden picked up a small plastic box. “Are we being bugged?”

  “One of Beverly’s roach killers. You can heave it. I told her not to put them in that cupboard. You walk Gretel by the harbor?”

  “Yes. I have to drag her past the Steaming Pot breakfast dive ‘cause everyone wants to feed her, and she thinks it’s a legitimate stop enroute.”

  “Move your chair over to this side,” Lucinda said. “I want to show you what I have.”

  A
den pulled over one of the straight back chairs from along the window wall. It’s bad enough, he thought, working with her this closely, and into the evening. Now we’re practically sharing the same desk. And Bart’s moved out.

  “Ok. Here are the salient background points. Looong history in the area.”

  “Longer than Gretel’s back,” Aden said, rereading the facts he’d memorized. Lucinda wore that sea-inspired scent that he liked, clean yet greenly spicy. Wind blowing over seashells in the dune grass. He moved his chair a little farther away.

  “Do I need to freshen my deodorant?” Lucinda joked.

  “Hardly,” Aden said. “The light’s better over here.”

  She looked at him quizzically, then returned to the challenge of Michaela Weld, wife of high-tech tycoon, former actress, current modern-art patron.

  “Anyway, based on visits I made to Windward Willows last spring, she’s still most interested in expanding the studio art facilities. She also wants to provide scholarships for studio art majors. I made a mockup of a proposal, you saw the last version of this, to give us an idea of where to steer the conversation. But today, we mostly listen.”

  Lucinda handed Aden a five-page proposal. Then she rose and poured them both coffee after the machine had hissed and gurgled a pot full.

  “We won’t give her the proposal today. I know her. She’ll toss it on her Busara cocktail table, and the housekeeper will trash it after two weeks once the cat shoves it over the edge and the dog shreds it. Michaela’s not a big reader anyway.”

  Aden chuckled. “I see you’ve inside knowledge of the donor beyond the typical prospect research report. Oh! I got those stats from Margo on applications for art majors starting winter semester. Here.”

  He handed her a few pages. Lucinda quickly scanned the e-mail printout, frowning.

  “What’s up? Was there other stuff I needed to ask for?” Aden said.

  “No. This is fine. It’s just that this shows the total number of art major applicants a third lower this year than last winter. I don’t see why there would be that big a drop,” Lucinda said.

  “You still think go multiyear for the first big gift?” Aden said, referring back to the proposal.

  “My feeling is, from what we’ve dug up, her assets are almost as big as his and more liquid. Neither of them is the piffle-around-with-ten-thousand-bucks-here, ten-thousand-bucks-there kind of donor. They want to fund something that has a stunning impact that they can feel good about.”

  “And brag on,” Aden said.

  “That too, but that’s your prerogative when you can splash money around in that league.”

  “Not a league we’ll ever play in, huh?” Aden said.

  Lucinda leaned back in her chair. “I don’t know. I doubt it. Of course, Tori never thought she’d be in the position she’s in financially. But, really, after you make a certain amount, how much more do you need?”

  “I’m not there yet,” Aden said. “Not even close.”

  “I’m not either,” Lucinda said. “But I’d rather figure out how to get these kids the money they need to come here and learn in good programs, than claw my way up to a position that pays megabucks. Like the big schools, the hospitals, the national disease organizations — ”

  “Pay here’s not shabby by any means,” Aden said.

  The office door opened abruptly. Aden, several feet away from Lucinda, looked up from the proposal.

  “Not interrupting, am I?” said Frank, smiling fiercely at Lucinda.

  Lucinda met his gaze levelly. Aden looked alternately at his boss and at Frank, whose smile displayed his incisors. A predator, Aden thought, just roaming the halls.

  “I just wanted you to know the Novelli Group guys canceled so I can join you at the Welds. I expect Pat will have an answer on that proposal I floated last week.”

  It was as though a huge gong had sounded in the room, Aden thought. Lucinda pulled in her upper lip and shifted her gaze to her computer monitor. Aden had noticed over the years that Lucinda had learned to stop for a moment so as to not to say the first, most truthful, most damning thing that popped into her head in these situations because it would be like throwing gasoline on dry dune grass while the hearer of the words held a burning torch. And he’d seen that look on her face much more frequently lately.

  Aden knew there wasn’t supposed to be a Gilbert Patrick Weld proposal right now, and that Lucinda hadn’t planned to involve Frank yet with Michaela or Patrick because Frank could open a whole trailerfull of worms in the donor cultivation process right now. Yet now Frank was at the stage of calling the high-tech venture capitalist “Pat.”

  “Which proposal, Frank?” Aden asked jovially. “I’ve been swamped with homecoming. Would you remind me?”

  “That two million for the business technology center. Section 3 in the Strategic Plan,” Frank replied.

  Lucinda eyed Frank coolly. “We won’t need you today. We’ll bring Michaela over to campus next week to see where we’re planning the remodel for the studios. It would be appropriate to have you on hand for that.”

  Aden knew Lucinda was pissed off when she used words like “appropriate.” He looked toward the window to stifle a grin, one that would not be appropriate.

  “Ok. Suit yourself,” Frank said, his gaze shifting between her and Aden. “Then I suggest we arrange a follow-up with Pat to keep you in on the details.” He turned and pulled the door shut smartly.

  “I’m going to be sick,” Aden said.

  Lucinda rose and moved slowly to the window, her eyes following Frank’s rapid advance down the sidewalk to Thornbough Hall. Aden quietly slipped in next to her.

  “Worse than you thought, too?” Aden said.

  “You’re not kidding,” Lucinda said. “Hey. Thanks for jumping in. I appreciate it.”

  “No problem, you got that jungle drum look. I see it more and more lately. He brings it out in people.”

  “‘Brief on the details!’ I briefed him on the strategy that we agreed on in the last Development Committee meeting.”

  “Which he forgot,” Aden said.

  “Which he is ignoring. I was targeting — counting on — Pat for a mega-leadoff gift for the capital campaign early next year. Two million is just too low-ball for what he can do.” She smacked her desk with an open palm. “I was working on $12 million over four years. Well, we’ll deal with Wickes later. Let’s go meet our patron of the arts.”

  Aden watched Lucinda’s flashing eyes soften. There’s a volcano in there, he thought. Bubbling. They watched Frank, tiny now, three stories below, open the door to Thornbough Hall and disappear behind it.

  “You have nerves of steel,” Aden said. “You do, Lucinda. You are amazing.”

  “Not really. It’s just that I’ve developed my acting skills. If I’d known what I know now, I’d have taken more undergrad courses in psych and theatre to prepare for this job. But at least we didn’t have those dreaded “philanthropy tracks” when we were coming up. The ones that delude you into thinking that if you just follow a fundraising plan, the rules, that untold riches will appear in an orderly fashion. Boards will check their egos at the door and fund raise, Chief Execs will fall over themselves to ask for gifts — ”

  “I know,” Aden said. “I can’t believe these kids coming up now. They think they can do consulting after working six months in the field. It’s ludicrous.”

  Lucinda said, “It’s getting to the point where it’s hard to keep a straight face interviewing some of those kids. There’s such a thing as self-confidence — ”

  “But there’s another thing called self-delusion,” Aden said. Lucinda’s questioning look made Aden consider all the ways she could take what he just said.

  “You’re good at this game,” she said after an uncomfortable silence.

  Aden got that tingle again. The one that he got in his core when he and Lucinda looked at each other without speaking. She, he figured, thinking about the next work thing, he struggling to keep his sloppy feel
ings in check. Not appropriate. He forced himself to look away from her face, then picked up the coffee mugs and placed them next to the coffeemaker.

  “Well, we’re off to Windward Willows,” she said to his back. “Let’s take my car.”

  * * * * *

  They drove south through Thornbury, took the loop west around a large saltwater marsh where Great Blue Herons stabbed for fish in the shallows, then settled in for five miles before the turnoff to the east to the exclusive seaside town of Boultonport. In the oldest part of town, closest to the sea, stonewalls and boxwood hedges like labyrinth walls hid the rambling stone mansions overlooking the harbor. Lucinda stopped at the entrance to the largest one in town on North Point Road and parked in the circular drive lined with corkscrew willows, whose spiral leaves whirled in the fresh breeze from the harbor.

  The front door was opened by Vanessa Weld in a narrow peacock green tunic, shiny bronze leggings, and bare feet. Her toenails were painted burnt cinnamon. Her initially bored expression brightened considerably at the sight of Aden. He held out his hand and she shivered visibly, Lucinda noticed, when she slid her palm next to Aden’s. Then she arranged herself, back arched against doorframe, displaying her chest to its best advantage. Lucinda hadn’t counted on the daughter being home.

  “May we come in?” Lucinda asked politely.

  “Nessa! Where are your manners! Let them in,” boomed a voice from an intercom by the door.

  Vanessa reluctantly rocked her weight from doorframe to feet, then led them down a wide hallway with cork parquet flooring to the back of the mansion. Lucinda whispered to Aden as they followed the hip-swaying Vanessa, “Nurse your one drink. He pours ‘em stiff.” Aden winked at Lucinda.

  “Welcome, welcome! We were going to have this happy party in the garden. I call it Michaela’s rock garden, but it’s starting to spit,” Gilbert Patrick Weld said, gleefully wielding bar paraphernalia.

  He gestured out the imposing bay window to the east. In the quarter-acre space between the mansion and the cliff, the wind jostled pink Asiatic lilies, the last of the season, and black-eyed Susans against Russian sage and red ornamental grasses growing between small boulders that broke the ground like dolphins arching their backs out of the sea. Thunder mumbled to the west.