Ambition

By Stephen Maitland-Lewis

Having it all will never be enough for George Tazoli, an ambitious dealer on the trading floor of a prominent California bank. He is hand-picked for a special assignment to sell off bad loans, but not because he is dating the daughter of the bank's president, rather for his skill at working the market. The promotion sends him to New York, pu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ridge Literary Inc
• Release date: Sep 12, 2017
• ISBN: 9780999380253

Stephen Maitland-Lewis

Stephen Maitland-Lewis is an award-winning author, a British attorney, and a former international investment banker. He has held senior executive positions in London, Kuwait, Paris, Munich, and on Wall Street prior to moving to California in 1991. He has owned a luxury hotel and a world-renowned restaurant and was also Director of Marketing of a Los Angeles daily newspaper.Maitland-Lewis is a jazz aficionado and a Board Trustee of the Louis Armstrong House Museum in New York. In 2014, he received the Museum's prestigious Louie Award. A member of PEN, The Authors Guild, and The Dramatists Guild of America, Maitland-Lewis is also on the Executive Committee of the International Mystery Writers Festival. In addition, he is on the Advisory Board of the California Jazz Foundation and is a former Board member.He has published short stories in various magazines and Mr. Simpson and Other Short Stories is Maitland-Lewis' first collection of short stories. His novels have received numerous accolades and his most recent suspense thriller is Duped. His other novels include Hero on Three Continents; Emeralds Never Fade which won the 2012 Benjamin Franklin Award for Historical Fiction and the 2011 Written Arts Award for Best Fiction; Ambition which was a 2013 USA Best Book Awards finalist and won first place for General Fiction in the 2013 Rebecca's Reads Choice Awards; and Botticelli's Bastard, a 2014 USA Best Book Awards finalist in three categories and winner of the Bronze Award in Best Regional Fiction (Europe) at the 2015 Independent Publisher Book Awards. Maitland-Lewis' short story, Mr. Simpson has recently been developed as a play and has been performed by noted theatre companies in Miami, New Orleans, and Beverly Hills. In January of 2016, Maitland-Lewis was sworn in as a Freeman of the City of London and admitted as a Liveryman of the Worshipful Company of City Solicitors. In April of 2016, he became a Fellow of The Royal Geographical Society (FRGS). He divides his time between Beverly Hills, CA, and New Orleans, LA.

Book preview

Prologue

Seventy-five thousand dollars in cash was a lot of money to ask for. Even split into three portions, each would be a tall stack, but of more concern was the time it was taking to make the withdrawal. George Tazoli had been penned up in a cubicle at the bank for over twenty minutes.

The lady at the bank was pleasant enough, but when she escorted George to the cubicle, he couldn’t help but notice its dimensions were about the size of a prison cell. After she left to speak with her supervisor, George had time to think about what he had done. And time to wonder if he’d get away with it. Maybe he should have withdrawn less. Ten grand would have been enough to get out of the country, but asking for sixty instead of seventy-five wouldn’t have made much difference.

As he sat facing the small desk, George leaned in his chair to peer out of the cubicle. It was close to lunchtime in downtown Los Angeles and the line of people waiting for tellers was growing. His own bank, where he had worked up until that morning, was just around the corner. A former coworker on his lunch hour might walk in and notice George in the cubicle, maybe even stop to say hello and ask what he was doing there. That would be awkward.

He checked his watch. The last five minutes felt like an hour. He hoped that Uncle Frank was feeding the parking meter outside on the street. And at the same time, he worried that someone might notice Frank in the driver’s seat of a car parked right outside the bank. It might look too much like a getaway vehicle.

George could feel the pounding of his heart. He had to calm down and act cool. Maybe it was the wire transfer that was holding up the withdrawal. It was normal, George convinced himself. Transferring that much money would require approval. But the person who needed to approve it was probably already out for lunch. He would simply have to sit and wait. And hope that no one suspected his reasons for moving so much money.

Mr. Tazoli?

George flinched and turned in his seat. An older gentleman was standing in the opening of the cubicle. To George’s relief, the man’s suit and tie were not the uniform of a security guard or police officer.

The man introduced himself as the bank manager and sat opposite George. We will require your signature. He slid a card across the desk.

George was disappointed the manager hadn’t brought the cash. One more delay. He took the card and scribbled his signature, though he should have done so with more care. The erratic movement of the pen clearly showed how nervous he was, and the resulting signature might not match the original, executed at a time when George was perfectly calm.

And another for the wire transfer. The bank manager slid another card across the desk. After all, it’s not every day we have a customer wire seven million dollars to Zurich.

Chapter 1

The rewards of a career spanning six decades should have made Charles Donovan happier with his life. Years of hard work had elevated him to chairman of the Forest & Vignes Bank, one of California’s most prestigious. He resided in a comfortable ten-bedroom home, one of Hancock Park’s grandest with its Palladian columns and majestic front portico, and he was served by a live-in staff of three, not counting his driver who occupied the carriage house. Given the wealth he had accumulated, Charles could, though he would never dream of it, be as irresponsible with money as he pleased and still live like a king until his last days. As it turned out, that sort of lavish spending was the habit of his youngest son, the world’s biggest fool with money. Unfortunately, his foolish son was also the president of the bank.

As Charles had done countless other Monday mornings, he went to his study in search of his briefcase and paused before a mirror to check the knot of his tie. After a quick adjustment, it was perfect. Unlike colleagues of similar age, he had not withered away, and he still had a head of thick white hair.

He was drawn to the side table where a collection of framed family photographs were arranged. The nearest was his wedding picture from when he was young, standing beside his dear departed Mildred. Oh how he missed her. That year would have marked their fiftieth anniversary, had she not succumbed to Parkinson’s. The only blessing was that she hadn’t lived to endure the news of their oldest son’s death while serving in Vietnam. Charles reached for the photograph of him in his Marine Corps dress blues. The image of their first son Geoff still made Charles proud to that day, himself a veteran of World War II. Next was the photograph of his daughter Victoria, who had married a top-notch attorney in New York. Of course they exchanged the required Christmas cards and birthday phone calls, but Charles hadn’t seen his daughter in seven years. The final framed photograph was of his surviving son Peter, posing for his Princeton graduation. How the fool managed to pass any of his classes was anybody’s guess.

Charles grabbed his briefcase and stepped out the front door of his home. He stopped to admire the garden with its weeping willows, pink and purple magnolias, and red oleander. So few things in life were still beautiful.

His driver stood by the open door of his Lincoln Town Car.

Where to this morning, sir?

The bank, as always. Charles got in the backseat.

His driver nodded. Yes, sir. To the bank, of course.

* * *

As the town car rolled through the streets of Hancock Park, Charles gazed out the window at the manicured lawns and gardens in bloom, and around the corner they passed his son Peter’s house. Though it was only two blocks away, Charles hadn’t visited for dinner or for any other reason in months. He didn’t have to, as nearly every day he would see Peter at the bank. It was like a curse, or some kind of twisted joke that life had played on Charles. Of all the family he longed to see, living or deceased, his least favorite was the only family member who was, to his discomfort, a part of his daily life.

Charles Donovan lived for the bank, but he had been far happier with his job in the early days. He began his career with the Vignes Bank in downtown Los Angeles, which occupied stately premises on Broadway in the heart of the financial district. For years Charles toiled to excel, interrupted briefly by the call to military duty, and he earned one promotion after another. In time, his diligence propelled him to surpass the rest and become the president of the bank.

In the late fifties, Charles saw an opportunity to merge the Vignes Bank with the Forest Bank across the street. The Vignes Bank’s clientele was mainly old-line families whereas the Forest Bank had developed an expanding corporate business with the movie studios and aircraft industry. Charles could see the advantages and pitched the idea to his board of directors, and then he approached the directors of the Forest Bank. The merger resulted in one of the strongest financial institutions on the West Coast.

Charles was elected president of the merged banks over the anticipated objections of several of the Forest directors. Though Charles enjoyed a number of prosperous years, perhaps the best time of his life, his elation would not be everlasting. First came the death of Mildred, his beloved, and not long after that their son Geoff was killed in action. Charles could never forget that on the same day he received the news of Geoff’s death, he had to wire twenty thousand dollars to bail out his youngest son Peter, who had lost heavily at a poker table. Further bailouts over the years were a regular occurrence. Charles had hoped that Peter’s wife, Blair, would have weaned him off gambling, but for some reason she always turned a blind eye to her husband’s addiction. Maybe, Charles speculated, she had other interests herself. She certainly didn’t need anything from the Donovans. Blair’s family was old-money. Pittsburgh steel with close links to the Mellons.

Peter Donovan had caused his father headaches from the day he got kicked out of Hotchkiss for peddling marijuana. He was lucky not to lose his place at Princeton, though that had proved dangerously close to the casinos of Atlantic City. Despite his heavy gambling, by some miracle Peter still managed to get into Harvard Business School. And then he met Blair.

Blair was nobody’s fool. The only daughter of Edward and Jean Owens of Pittsburgh, she was born with a mouthful of silver spoons, not that she wasn’t tough. She was as hard as the steel her family had manufactured for generations, propelling them to the top of the annual lists of America’s richest families. Some of that wealth found its way into the balance sheet of the Forest & Vignes Bank, which guaranteed Peter’s promotion to president and Charles becoming chairman, both in spite of opposition from the Leigh family.

The Leighs were the largest stockholders in the Forest Bank. In fact, Jack Leigh’s great-great grandfather had been one of the original founders when the bank first opened for business on Montgomery Street in San Francisco during the Gold Rush. Hardly a board meeting went by without Jack Leigh reminding his fellow directors that the Forest Bank predated the Vignes Bank by forty-seven years.

Charles often thought that he should just retire and leave it all behind. He could have years ago, but after seeing many of his contemporaries retire to follow their dream of buying an RV and playing golf or fishing endlessly, only to drop dead within a year, he concluded that it was better to keep working and extend his lifetime.

Chapter 2

Outside the Los Angeles headquarters of the Forest & Vignes Bank, his driver parked the car and opened the door for Charles Donovan.

He got out on the sidewalk. Be back at eleven thirty, he said to his driver. I have a lunch appointment at the Jonathan Club.

At the bank’s entrance, the uniformed doorman saluted Mr. Donovan when he approached the copper and glass revolving door. Inside, his heels clicked the white and black marble floor of the banking hall as he walked toward the elevator. Tellers smiled at him and he waved to the pretty new receptionist, busy attending to a floral display on a console. Another receptionist was straightening the morning’s newspapers on a side table.

After riding the elevator to the seventeenth floor, he stepped into the corridor and walked toward his corner office.

Good Morning, Mr. Donovan. His secretary rose from her desk and followed him into his office. Mr. Peter needs to see you as soon as possible.

Tell him I’ve arrived and he can come up whenever he wants. But I’m out of here at twelve sharp. Charles took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack, then moved around his desk and sat down. What is he after this time?

I haven’t any idea, Mr. Donovan. She shrugged and silently excused herself.

Charles opened the leather folder of incoming mail and office memoranda. It wasn’t like the old days when he had a proper job. He couldn’t recall the last time someone wrote him a letter about actual business. All he would ever receive were solicitations from local charities and invitations to sponsor fundraisers.

Charles relished the time when he was engaged in the daily management of the bank. Being pushed upstairs to become chairman only turned him into an empty suit, brought out to preside at stockholders’ meetings and be the bank’s ambassador-at-large, without any defined portfolio. Board meetings were no fun either, having to endure Jack Leigh’s constant whining about returns on capital and always delivering a litany of complaints. Some of Peter’s monthly management reports made Charles squirm with embarrassment at their lack of detail and how Peter always glossed over negative issues, of which recently, there were a rising number.

His secretary quietly entered the room and placed a fresh cup of coffee on the desk. Mr. Peter is on his way up. Shall I bring him a cup, Mr. Donovan?

Don’t bother. No point in prolonging his visit.

* * *

After a quiet spell at his desk, sipping coffee and sorting useless mail, Charles heard the door of his office creak open.

Without looking up, he asked, What is it this time, Peter?

Standing in the doorway, Peter Donovan covered his cell phone with one hand.

Just a minute, Dad.

Charles didn’t bother to listen while his son continued talking on his phone. He would have hoped that his son, at age fifty-five, not only had better manners than to walk into the chairman’s office while in the midst of a conversation—in all likelihood, with his bookmaker—but that he would dress more appropriately for a bank’s president. The young lads in the mail room dressed better.

Peter Donovan was a reasonably attractive man for his age. He was tall, kept himself clean, and was moderately athletic from regular tennis. However, any glances from the ladies were nothing compared to his younger days before his blond hair began to recede and thin. His tanned, puffy face, once considered good-looking, had accumulated the wearisome lines of a troubling life. Any softness to his smile had vanished years ago.

Strolling into his father’s office, Peter was engrossed in his phone conversation. He had violated company dress code by leaving his office without his jacket, a fact not gone unnoticed by his father. Peter’s gray trousers were too pale for a downtown office, and his red and yellow tie set against a blue short-sleeved shirt was just ghastly. One would think his wife might have knocked some sense into him by now. After all, they had been married for close to thirty years.

Peter made no effort to cut short his telephone conversation. Still chatting, he sat down facing his father’s desk and stretched out his legs.

Charles gave Peter an icy stare.

I gotta go, Peter said. We’ll talk later. He snapped his phone shut, then glanced over his shoulder and noticed the door he had left open. He got up to close it.

Well? Charles asked. What is it, Peter?

I was in New York last week, Dad. Peter came back to his seat. I met with our people at Goldman. They have a foreign group that could be interested in buying a significant stake in our bank. What do you think?

Well, it’s not the first time there’s been interest in us. Charles sipped his coffee. Hopefully it won’t be the last. Who’s their client?

I don’t know, Peter said. They wouldn’t tell me. They just wanted to sniff me out.

Charles set down his cup. You tell them that when they disclose the name of their client, then and only then, will I give the matter some thought, but not until. Once again, you’ve come here to waste my time.

Don’t be so negative, Dad. All they’re asking is whether we’d be willing to consider it.

Look, Peter, it’s very simple. If it’s an Arab bank, it would be the kiss of death for us. We don’t need that sort of connection. If it’s a Chinese bank, we might have problems with our aviation clients because of security issues with the Department of Defense. Got it? So until we know who it is, you’re wasting your time and mine.

I don’t agree, Peter said. I think we need to explore all possibilities. After all, Bank of America and Wells Fargo are forging way ahead of us.

Before anyone buys into us, Charles said, we’ve got to clean up our balance sheet, Peter. Under your watch as president of this bank, our non-performing loans are far out of line. Between our exposure to third world countries, lousy real estate loans, and some shady clients you’ve brought in over the years, we have a billion dollars, more or less, of problems on the books. Think about that. His son’s visit was only a source of irritation, as always. Do you really want to sit down with an aggressive buyer and their Wall Street advisors and talk your way through that minefield of crap?

Stop blaming me for all the shit we’re carrying on the books.

Not as long as you’re the president of this bank and our stock price is underperforming.

Peter stood. Every damned bank in the country has lousy loans on the books, not just ours. It’s the fucking economy.

Charles bristled. He avoided profanities himself and hated to hear it from the mouths of others. "We have more than our share of problem loans, Peter. Much more than the industry average, and the better part of them came on the books since you became president." Up from his seat, Charles aimed his finger at Peter.

In a moment of silence, the two men stared angrily at each other.

Peter marched toward the door. Well, I’m going to bring it up at the board meeting this Wednesday. We’ll see what the other directors decide.

I agree. Charles lowered to his seat. You’re under an obligation to do that anyway. I can’t see the Leighs voting in favor of a new foreign stockholder. Can you? They’ll ask the same questions I’ve asked.

Peter turned back. To hell with the Leigh family.

Never forget that they’re our largest non-institutional shareholders, Peter.

How could I? Jack reminds me every time we speak. Peter sighed. For Christ’s sake, Dad, why does this always happen? I’m here to speak with you, and before you know it, we’re talking about that prick and his damned family.

Charles wouldn’t admit it, but his son was right. However, that didn’t mean he would apologize for it.

Have you heard from Sam? Charles asked, hoping to change the subject. He glanced at the photograph on his desk of his only grandchild, Samantha. Twenty-six years old and a Stanford graduate, she was busy climbing the career ladder at a large public relations firm. Her office was merely a stone’s throw from the bank, but Charles didn’t see her as often as he would have liked.

She’ll be back from Paris on Friday, Peter said. I’ll tell her to come see you.

That would be nice. How is she doing?

Just fine. She’s moving into a new apartment at the end of the month. She also has a new boyfriend.

Oh? Charles raised an eyebrow. And who is the young man?

A fellow who works for us. George Tazoli, an assistant vice-president in our trading room.

Really? I don’t think we’ve met. Is he nice? He’s not some fortune hunter, I hope.

I haven’t met him either, Peter said. It’s not like I hang out on the trading floor. But apparently he came by the house and Blair had a chance to meet him. She says he’s uncouth. But then again, she finds me uncouth, too.

Charles wouldn’t argue that. At least on that one topic, he and his daughter-in-law were in complete agreement—how poorly Peter conducted himself.

Where did they meet? Charles asked.

At the bank’s Christmas party last December.

They’ve been dating that long? Charles was surprised. This is the first I’ve heard of it. I might have to wander down to the third floor and have a look at him.

You should do that, Dad. Let me know what you think.

Charles looked again at the photograph on his desk. His granddaughter was beautiful. Tall and slender, with long blond hair. The photograph was taken last fall when she won first prize at a horse show in Santa Barbara. She looked happy standing next to her horse with her arm around its neck.

Peter shifted closer to his father’s desk. Blair thinks that Sam’s move to the new apartment is a prelude to the boyfriend moving in with her.

Then I definitely better take a look at the young man. Up from his seat, Charles checked his watch and moved to fetch his jacket, as if he had to leave. I have a lunch date at the Jonathan Club, so we’ll have to talk later.

Charles had plenty of time before his appointment. He simply didn’t care to spend any further time with his son.

Peter moved toward the door. I’ll make sure Sam drops in on you over the weekend.

Good. Charles adjusted his jacket and ushered Peter out. I look forward to seeing her. It’s been too long.

From the doorway of his office, Charles stood watching as Peter boarded the elevator and left the seventeenth floor.

Charles said to his secretary, Please, would you go down to Personnel and get me the file on George Tazoli.

Chapter 3

During the Wednesday board meeting, Charles Donovan looked at the grandfather clock. The meeting had been dragging on for close to two hours. Fortunately, Peter hadn’t made a jackass of himself, and he had forcibly answered Jack Leigh’s customary penetrating questions without his usual stumbling and oft-repeated groveling response such as I’ll look into it, Jack, and Yes, I’ll get right back to you on that, Jack.

Surprisingly, Jack Leigh was in a decent mood and hadn’t bitten off anyone’s head, and as usual, the other directors had little to say for themselves.

Charles looked around the table at his eight colleagues. Is there anything else, gentlemen, before we bring the meeting to a close?

Yes, Peter said. I have something, Mr. Chairman.

Charles groaned inwardly, certain that his son was about to make a fool of himself. The board, and Charles, would again have to endure some anticipated stupidity about to emanate from Peter’s mouth.

All eyes turned toward Peter Donovan. At the start of the meeting, his father had been aghast enough after catching a glimpse of his son’s shiny navy suit. He was even more horrified when Peter removed his jacket to reveal bright-pink suspenders and a pale-green short-sleeved shirt. Charles wondered if his son was actually color blind.

Gentlemen, Peter began. I was in New York last week and met with one of our advisors at Goldman. They told me that they have a client who has expressed interest in buying a stake in our bank.

Jack Leigh leaned back and crossed his arms. What did you tell them, Peter?

I didn’t say anything other than that I would discuss it with the board.

Who is their client? one of the directors asked.

I don’t have that information yet, Peter replied.

Well, that’s crucial, Jack Leigh said. We don’t want to waste time dealing with hypotheticals. Tell your man at Goldman that when he can identify the client, we’ll have something to discuss.

Charles Donovan smiled. It was rare that he and Jack agreed on anything.

In any event, the other director continued, our stock price is way below what it should be.

What is the reason for that, Peter? Jack Leigh asked.

I have no idea, Peter replied. Other than a bad economy. The Dow has been down every day for the last two weeks. The banking sector has been particularly hard hit.

I’ll tell you why our stock’s down, another director said. It’s because of our problem loans. There’re far too many. It’s seriously affecting our earnings. He hesitated before adding, One of last weekend’s financial columnists even suggested that we might have to pass on our quarterly dividend and have layoffs. That would be terrible.

Downcast, Charles Donovan sighed. And for the first time in the history of the bank. He looked up to glare at his son.

Jack Leigh said, The first order of business should be to liquidate our problem loans as expeditiously and discreetly as we can. Then, and only then, will we entertain any such talks.

Just what I think too, Jack. Charles stared disdainfully at his son.

Peter argued, We can’t just go out and sell close to a billion dollars worth of assets without attracting attention in the market. Our shares will nosedive if the market senses anything that resembles a fire sale.

Jack Leigh said, There are ways it could be handled discreetly and in an orderly fashion, for God’s sake. It doesn’t have to be accomplished overnight. However, it would be good if we could dispose of all the bad loans before our year-end.

But think of the write-downs we’ll have to announce, Peter said. That won’t do us any good.

Bullshit! Jack Leigh shouted. Our potential real estate profits are huge. Sell stakes in some of our buildings in Beverly Hills and San Francisco and we’d more than cover any write-downs. He glanced over his shoulder to view the life-sized portrait of his grandfather that dominated the wall, as if to seek his approval. Whistler had done a good job, capturing the family grit and greed in the revered ancestor’s eyes.

I don’t know about that, Jack, Peter said.

I know what I’m talking about when it comes to real estate. Jack Leigh glanced at his fellow board members, then back to Peter. Don’t forget that, Peter Donovan. I tell you here and now that my real estate company is a willing buyer of any number of those properties. We’d pay prices that would more than cover the bank’s losses on those damned loans you’ve saddled us with these last few years. Though addressing Peter, Jack Leigh had shifted his disapproving stare to Charles, as if to insinuate who was truly to blame.

I agree with you, Jack, Charles said. We have to convert our underperforming loans into cash and bite the bullet. If we can unlock some of our unrealized gains by selling selected properties, we’ll solve the problem to some extent. It pained Charles to be in agreement with Jack Leigh, but in this particular case, Jack was right.

So what do you want me to do? Peter asked.

Jack looked at him incredulously. For Christ’s sake, you’re the president of the bank. Come up with a plan to discreetly sell off our underperforming loans and make damned sure that our next annual report looks a darn sight prettier than it did last year. Understand?

Okay, Peter said. I’ll put something together and have it ready by next month’s board meeting.

Like hell you will, Jack Leigh said. You’ll have it ready next week, at the special board meeting the Chairman will convene one week from today. As an afterthought, he looked at Charles and said, If that’s okay with you, Charles.

I’m in total agreement, Jack.

Chapter 4

Nellie, Mr. Donovan’s housekeeper, went to answer the front door. The weekend visitor brought her a big smile.

My, you look so beautiful, Miss Samantha. Nellie invited her in and closed the door. Your grandfather is in his study.

Thank you, Nellie. It’s so good to see you. Sam held out a small box wrapped in silver paper with a white bow. I’ve brought you a present from Paris.

That is so kind of you, Miss Samantha. I can’t wait to open it, but first I must finish the coconut cake, after I make tea for your grandfather. Twenty years taught Nellie never to be late with Mr. Donovan’s Saturday afternoon tea. Run along now. He’s expecting you.

* * *

Lounging on the sofa in his study, Charles Donovan let the New York Times fall to his lap when Samantha entered the room.

Hello, Sam. Welcome home. How’s my favorite grandchild?

She looked lively in her designer jeans, tall black boots, and black sequined shirt that contrasted her straight blond hair. Her new ensemble was most likely purchased during a recent Paris shopping spree. Her blue eyes shone bright and her smile stretched wide.

I don’t know how big a compliment that is, Grandpa. She crossed the room and kissed him on the cheek. I’m your only grandchild, remember? She giggled. How is my favorite grandfather?

These old bones will be good for a few more years. He chuckled, then thought of Peter. Despite all contempt for his son, he was thankful that at least the boy had given him so perfect a granddaughter.

Charles patted a spot on the sofa next to him. Now tell me all about Paris. I hope you had fun.

I had a wonderful time. Rather than sitting, she strolled around the backside of the sofa. I did all the usual tourist things, and then I went to spend some time in Chatou with Alexander’s mother, Marie-Helene. You remember Alexander, don’t you, Grandpa? Around the sofa to face him, she waited for his reaction. He had none. He was the handsome young man I met at a party at the French consulate a few years ago. Remember? I went to Bulgaria with his sister, Aurelie-Anne last year.

Charles smiled and nodded despite his failing memory.

His brother Oliver, she continued, "is a big-time antiquarian book dealer in Paris. He sold me a book for you that he’s mailing. It’s a first edition of Emile Zola’s, Le Docteur Pascal. It’s beautifully bound and in perfect condition, and printed on that lovely thick paper they used in Europe in the nineteenth century. She stepped away, closer to the antique bookcase that housed his first editions, and spread her arms. It will look so good with all the rest."

That’s very sweet of you, Sam, Charles said. I look forward to receiving it. Then he caught himself nodding, relieved that his memory hadn’t failed him after all. Now I remember Alexander. A charming boy. Lovely manners and from such a nice family. Actually, to tell you the truth, I was quite hoping that you two would click. A much better catch than that last ne’er-do-well you brought round to meet me, if I may say so.

She ignored his comment about a former boyfriend. I know you liked Alexander. You and mother both. Strolling around the study, she grew nearer to the desk. He had a girlfriend, Grandpa. Anyway, I have so much to tell you.

Charles realized that he had left Tazoli’s file on his desk. He shot up and coaxed Sam toward the sofa. Then by all means, princess, have a seat and tell me everything. Just then Nellie rolled in the tea trolley, a welcome distraction as Charles went to the desk and slipped Tazoli’s file into a drawer.

Well, Grandpa, Sam said, the first thing to tell you is that I got a raise at the office. They want me to work with the team that handles the account for a prominent Dutch bank. It’s very exciting. I’m going to be the client’s West Coast person, but it will involve monthly trips to New York.

That’s wonderful. He approached the sofa and sat next to Sam as Nellie poured tea. Maybe you’ll meet a handsome Dutch banker who’ll sweep you off your feet with tulips and Gouda. He laughed.

Don’t be so silly, Grandpa. Besides, I have a new boyfriend. She seemed happy to reveal this news, but at the same time, annoyed that her grandfather had lured her into revealing it before she was ready.

Oh? Charles said. Tell me about him.

I will, Grandpa, but I didn’t finish telling you about New York. On these monthly visits, if my parents agree, I’ll stay at their apartment. I’ve already cleared it at the office. They’ll give me a daily hotel allowance of four hundred dollars which I’ll be able to pocket. Isn’t that great?

Wow, he said. Have you really gotten approval for that? It doesn’t seem quite right. He frowned. I would never agree to such a thing.

It’s what they’d have to pay anyway for a decent hotel these days. They’re going to pay someone, so it might as well be me. I’ve calculated that I might make another couple of thousand a month on this. Maybe even more.

Of course, you’ll have to declare it on your tax return, Sam.

Oh, Grandpa, don’t be such an old fuddy-duddy.

Charles shook his head. He thought back to the days, and it didn’t seem all that long ago, when a hundred dollars would have bought a suite at one of the finest hotels in the city.

Now tell me about your new boyfriend, Charles said. Will I like him? When do I get to meet him?

First, he’s adorable. She smiled. He’s a little shorter than me, but I don’t wear a very high heel, so it’s not a problem. After all, how many women do you know who are five foot eleven like me? She giggled and continued, He’s athletic. He had a football scholarship to Berkeley and then he lived in San Francisco for a few years working for Bank of America.

And what does he do now? Charles asked as though he didn’t already know.

Excited to arrive at her big revelation, Sam twisted on the sofa to better face her grandfather. You’ll never guess, Grandpa. He works at the bank, on the trading floor. Municipal bonds or something like that. You’ve probably seen him many times.

Gracious me. What’s his name? he asked, pretending that he was surprised.

George Tazoli. Do you know him?

No, I don’t know him, he answered too quickly. But I’m certainly going to make a point of visiting the third floor first thing Monday morning to give him a once-over.

Her eyes filled with fright. Grandpa, please. Don’t scare him off. I’m crazy about him.

As if I would do such a thing. He chuckled. Where did you meet him?

At the bank’s last Christmas party. He asked me to dance. He didn’t know who I was. When I told him on our second date that I was the daughter of the president and the granddaughter of the chairman, he almost fainted. She giggled.

Tazoli. Tazoli. What nationality is he, Sam?

He’s American, silly. His father’s family came from Italy and his mother is Mexican. Both are fine nationalities, Grandpa.

Yes, I suppose they are. So where do they live?

East Los Angeles.

He was silent for a moment. Have you met his folks yet?

The weekend before I left for Paris. Lovely people. I like them a lot.

And has your mother met the young man? Charles asked, even though Peter had already told him that she had. I’m assuming your father knows him from the office.

"Yeah, dad likes him, at least I think so. Mother