“Your genius husband didn’t tell you?” The click of her mother’s lighter traveled through the wire as she lit her own cigarette. “What’s the noise banging behind you?”
“The radio.”
“What station is that? Screeching cat sounds?”
“I’ll turn it down.”
“Not down. Off. I can’t hear myself think.”
Phoebe shut off the music, reflexively obedient to her mother’s demand.
“So, did he tell you?”
“Did he tell me what?” Phoebe dipped into the pot and sampled a bit of sauce. Almost perfect. Velvet smooth.
“How he lost everyone’s money?”
Phoebe sighed, deliberately loud enough for her mother to hear. Who should be called Sarah Bernhardt now? “He lost whose money?”
“Are you listening? Jake needed Daddy to bail him out. He didn’t tell you before he came to us begging? What kind of marriage are you in? I’m aware of every single thing Daddy does. Do you even know who Jake is?”
Phoebe didn’t bring up the money while they ate supper. Jake seemed oblivious to her silent serving, probably grateful she didn’t beg for a Walter Cronkite–free dinner when he flipped on the small television on the kitchen counter. As he listened to the news, she searched for ways to approach the subject, until finally, while clearing dirty plates, she blurted out her anxiety.
“My mother called,” she said. “Fuming. Why didn’t you tell me about the loan?”
“What are you talking about? And for the love of God, when isn’t Lola fuming?”
Phoebe squeezed dishwashing liquid in the sink. “Don’t play dumb.”
“Since when are my work issues any of Lola’s concern?”
“When you ask my parents for money.”
“The money was between your father and me.” He stood, picked up the silverware, carried it to the sink, and dropped in the knives and forks, looking pleased when they clattered off the dishes.
She clutched the edge of the counter and tried not to scream. After counting to twenty, Phoebe spoke in a calm and even tone. “So what happened?”
“Nothing. It wasn’t a big deal. A cash crunch, that’s all.”
“My mother said you needed Daddy to cover your clients’ accounts.”
“Your mother’s always made it pretty damned clear that she doesn’t like me.”
Phoebe pressed her lips together, returned to the table, and sat across from Jake, her hands clasped on top of the bright-yellow tablecloth. “You lost clients’ money?”
“I didn’t lose anything. An investment went south. Normal stuff.”
“Why did you have to cover something normal? I don’t understand. They invested. Isn’t it their risk?”
“This is so not a big deal.” Jake picked up his crumpled napkin and smoothed the wrinkles. “There’s a time and a place in business to show losses, and this was neither the time nor the place. You don’t understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
Jake grabbed a pad and pen from the junk drawer, flung it on the table, and dropped back into his chair. “Okay. Watch and learn, baby.” He drew a black line with a Flair pen, creasing the paper as he bore down. “I’m giving you the easy version.”
She worked to concentrate. Numbers and the whole world of investment sent her thoughts to her plans for Mira House the next day.
“There are two sides of my business.” Black ink dotted the white notepad as Jake jabbed at the left side of the paper. He wrote “JPE” across the top in letters so thick they shouted off the page. “This is the brokerage. Think of it as plain old vanilla.”
Phoebe tried to stay engaged. “For which I type up orders, right?”
“Exactly. Joe Blow calls and orders ten shares of XYZ stock, and we make the transaction for him. He sends us money. We send him the stock. Got it?”
Her mother probably blew this whole thing up. Phoebe snuck her hand in his and squeezed, looking forward to his expression when he saw the rattles on the cake.
“This side . . .” He jabbed at the paper. “This is The Club. The investment advisory I told you about. People give me money they want to invest, and I make the decisions what to buy. Then—”
“This is the business you have with Uncle Gus?”
“No!” He held his palms out again and took a deep breath. “Sorry. It just drives me a little crazy. Gus acts like he owns part of the Club, but all he does is send some clients my way. After that, he’s out of it. I don’t even let him keep the books. He only tracks the brokerage. For which I pay him fair and square.”
“Why not the Club books?”
“What I make for the clients is nobody’s business.”
“Doesn’t he send you them?” she asked.
“If I send your sister to Dr. Klein, does it mean he should tell me how much she weighs?”
“Good point.” Phoebe pointed to the paper. “Okay. Make it crystal clear.”
Jake gave an authoritative nod. “Short and simple.” He labeled the right side of the paper “Brokerage.” “Once more: this is the stock-trading business, the brokerage. Here, in Jake Pierce Equity. I buy a stock and sell it ten minutes later for a few pennies more. If I misjudge or don’t move fast enough, I lose. Sometimes I purchase stocks ’cause I know someone wants it; sometimes because I think it’s a good price and I can find someone who wants it. I don’t make much profit per sale. It’s about volume—making lots of sales.”
“And if you buy a stock nobody wants?” Phoebe asked.
“I own it, and I take the bath.” Big-shot teacher was Jake’s favorite role, even with an audience of only one. “Sometimes I sell it for less than I paid.”
“And we take a bath,” she said.
“Trust me, I’ll do all the worrying. Now, on the other side, we have the private investments. The half that Uncle Gus christened the Club.”
When he wrote “Club,” the paper tore a bit. “This is where I build up slow and steady. Unlike the brokerage—where I am basically a middleman—here I play a long game. We want these customers for life. I invest their money in stocks and bonds that I choose and get a small percentage of their gains as my fee.”
“And if they lose?”
He grinned. “Then I earn a pretty small fee, eh? Bottom line? With JPE, I buy with the intention of selling right away. I’m a broker. The government sets the rules of the game. The Club is different. I’m the advisor and the manager. I make the decisions. I write the guidelines. I choose, invest, and hold the funds for the clients. I send them statements each month. The first clients were the ones your uncle brought in.”
“Are you gonna do it every time a price goes down? Cover the losses in this club? Are you running a business or a charity?”
“I’m not going to fail. Ever. Soon I’ll make more money in a year than your father makes in ten. This was just a blip at a bad time.”
“You know I want us happy more than rich, right?”
“We’ll be both.” He rose and offered his hand, bringing her into his arms. “I’ll earn damn castles of joy. Our lives will be magnificent, baby.”