“Lola, he runs a huge business,” her father said. “Anything could happen.”
“Stop apologizing for him, Red.”
Phoebe held up her hands. “He’ll get here when he gets here. Drink some champagne and have fun.”
Deb steered Phoebe from their parents, throwing back an apology as she did. “Sorry, guys. Eva is looking for her.” As they walked away, she whispered, “I’ll run interference with them. Don’t worry.”
“Have I appreciated you enough all these years?” Phoebe asked her sister.
Eva circulated with glasses of champagne for the adults and cherry-studded ginger ale for the kids. Phoebe grabbed an overfilled glass and drank it fast. Jake’s absence felt deliberate. She turned when the bell tinkled over the door, opening for another guest. Ira Henriquez smiled, looking thrilled to see the crowd. She knew that as the Mira House director, he’d be happy—but his joy emanated from their growing closeness.
“Phoebe!” Ira grabbed her in a bear hug. He gestured around the room. “Damn. You’re a miracle.”
She pointed to Eva, Zoya, and Linh in succession. “If there’s miracle status to hand out, it belongs to all of us.”
The previous night, she’d put up the three of them in the swank local inn, despite their protests, wanting a good-luck dinner together. Linh’s husband would never have let her out for the entire night—his suspicions were always at red alert level—so Eva and Zoya had cooked up a story of Phoebe screeching that she needed all of them working through the night to ready the bakery.
By the second glass of wine, they’d become almost hysterical laughing as Linh imitated her husband swearing. She’d risen to her full five feet, making her eyes angry threads as she spat a mix of Vietnamese and English through her lips. “Who is supposed to watch kids and cook? My mother? That white witch thinks she owns you. An Cu Cua Toi.” Linh dropped character and lowered her voice. “That’s what he said. Which means you should eat his cock.”
“Would that be worthwhile?” Zoya asked.
“Ptui!” Linh imitated gagging. “Like licking a wriggling worm.”
Now Phoebe grinned, remembering the night. Ira smiled back, seeming to mistake her mirth as happiness at seeing him.
“I brought the entire board of directors,” he said. “We rented a van.” Ira bit into a cherry chocolate cupcake. “Jesus Christ. Heaven on earth.”
Zoya popped up between them, opening her arms wide and leaping on Ira, who protected his cupcake by holding it above his head. Jealousy flashed through Phoebe—her infatuation, she prayed, remained well hidden from the world. Hell, every woman in Mira House was half in love with Ira. Combine his cowboy aura with his seeming ability to rescue an entire town and—abracadabra—the perfect man.
A buzz went up.
Jake walked in.
Ira turned. “Seems like someone important just came in.”
“My husband.” Phoebe remembered they’d never met, Ira and Jake, and she wasn’t looking forward to the encounter. They knew her from such different angles.
“The man behind the woman?”
“The man who financed most of this operation.”
“Introduce us so I can thank him.”
Together they walked toward Jake. Her husband’s hug reminded her how men read each other like jungle animals. If Jake had a ruff, it would have doubled in size.
Ira put out his hand. “We owe you a debt of gratitude.”
“For giving over my wife?” Jake grinned.
“Jake believes in the chattel theory of marriage,” Phoebe said.
“Humor. Love’s favorite servant,” Ira said.
“Is that a quote?” Phoebe asked.
“Just made it up,” Ira said.
“A humanitarian plus a poet.” Jake clapped Ira on the back. “You deserve the gratitude, I’d think. Sacrificing so much for so little.”
“Little? Hardly.” Ira cocked his head and studied Jake. “My work’s not measurable by a gold standard, but I sleep well at night.”
“Thank goodness for men of mammon to support saintly works.”
Zoya insinuated herself between Ira and Jake and clapped their broad backs. “The two big shots finally meet.” She caught a glance at the four of them in the mirror. “We look good, huh? We should all go out sometime.”
“Who knows, maybe we will,” Ira said. “We’ll celebrate as we look back at the beginning of the Mira House fortune. Created by Phoebe. Brought to life by Mira House. Invested with Jake.”
CHAPTER 15
Jake
April 1986
Compared with New York, Cambridge in April looked bucolic—at least from where Jake waited for Gita-Rae’s call. Outside the limo, students, professionals, and even the street people moved at a leisurely pace that made New Yorkers resemble overwound toy soldiers.
Jake enjoyed saying “My daughter’s at Harvard,” but the kid better think twice before thinking she could settle here. Living in New England was fine for college, but she’d be back in New York when she went to graduate school.
He planned for both the kids to work at JPE. Only in the brokerage side, of course, until he got caught up at the Club or shut down the entire pain in the ass. Keeping that garbage from Phoebe and the kids, now and forever, was his top priority.
Jake glanced at his watch: 10:01. Gita-Rae was late. Phoebe would kill him if he didn’t return to the restaurant before the food came. He reached for his worn brown notebook, identical to the hundreds he kept in a locked drawer in his home office, each used for only one purpose: tracking the Club funds. Every page was divided in two and then labeled in his own hand:
Cash In: Funds brought in with new accounts.
Cash Out: Withdrawals by clients.
All written in unintelligible shorthand.
Each morning, he checked his personal account balances—some in his name, most in a joint account with Phoebe, some in just Phoebe’s name—against the Club account. Their personal savings were spread between Fidelity and three banks.
Jake monitored the in and out more often than he shaved—which was a feat, because his beard grew so thick that he needed two shaves a day.
Two things let him breathe: checking the numbers with Gita-Rae and making sure his father had enough tasks. He couldn’t stand picturing his old man slouched in front of the boob tube. Jake kept him busy; made him feel worthwhile. He wrote out a list of senior centers where his father could pass out business cards. Not Jake’s—ones from Gallagher & Graham.
Ronnie Gallagher, no longer the green young assistant he was for Uncle Gus back in the Bronx, had formed the bookkeeping partnership of Gallagher & Graham, also known as G&G. They fed more clients to the Club than anyone—though lately, the Cook and Baylor Equity Fund in New Jersey showed promise for bringing in the horsey set.
The shrill ring of the mobile assaulted him.
“Ready,” he said.