Jake wasn’t blind. He frightened Noah—sure, he knew that—but the boy needed toughening. He wanted his kids resilient, not babied into a life spent as a rich man’s children. Especially Noah. Kate’s moxie never failed her. Jake didn’t alarm her—which annoyed him or amused him, depending on his mood.
Jake shook the Times back into crispness. “I gotta stay on the ball. Remember what happened to Steve Jobs last year. They threw him out of Apple, his own company. That’s why you don’t go public. The poor schmendrick poured his life into his company and they booted his ass out. Remember this when I’m gone.”
“He brought Apple public to get megabucks for expansion. That’s how he went from rich to insanely wealthy.” Kate tapped the tabletop. “But he still wanted control, which you lose once a board is in place, right? He lost the fight. That’s business, Dad.”
Ah, the assurance of youth. One year at Harvard and she could analyze Apple and Steve Jobs.
“Correct, my Harvard genius. This is what I’m paying the bills for. But nothing is more important than control. You go public, you give it up.”
“We know your strategy: One, keep the money in the family.” Kate made an invisible checkmark.
“Two, keep the power in the family.” Noah made a second and more dramatic checkmark.
People groveling at the office meant nothing. This, his family, was everything.
“Three, keep the most power for yourself,” Phoebe said. “You never fail there.”
“Complaining?” Jake held up her hand and rattled the collection of bracelets. “You want diamonds and power?”
Kate lifted his wrist, turning his hand to see the time displayed on his Patek Philippe. “You have both. Why shouldn’t Mom?”
“We all do fine in this family.” There were worse things than his drawer of watches. Opening the dresser to his velvet tray of neatly lined gold and leather soothed him no end. Matching a timepiece to his suit, strapping it on, and shooting his cuffs marked the beginning of his day.
He lifted the ugly brown mug to drink the last of his coffee. How had they ended up at this place? Pewter Pot. The big teapot hanging outside and the dark wood and waitresses in frilly aprons were meant to make them feel as though they were visiting Ye Olde London instead of Harvard Square. Fat chance with street kids hustling for change everywhere and others begging you to support everything from AIDS research to homeless veterans.
Jake folded the paper and handed it to Phoebe, who stuffed it in her straw bag. “You’ll find out what working for your money means this summer. See what you think about me and Steve Jobs after sweating your way through the jobs I have planned for you on the brokerage floor.”
“I keep telling you, I’m going to Southampton,” Kate declared. “Uncle Theo said I’d be doing him a favor, keeping an eye on the kids.”
“Babysitting while you bake on the beach? With the partying going on there? No way. Between the drugs, the alcohol, and the rich boys looking to get laid, anything could happen. Sleep with someone these days, and you’re taking your life in your hands.”
“God, Daddy. I want to help Uncle Theo and Aunt Ellen watch the kids, and you have me dead of AIDS. Don’t you trust my judgment at all?”
“You I have faith in. In the Hamptons, I believe nobody. You’ll work at the brokerage and drive in with me.”
Kate slapped the table. “I don’t want a job with you. I don’t even want to go to the Hamptons. You know what I want? To be at Mira House. I just knew you’d flip out. Ira said I could work at the summer camp.”
“After I said no, you called Ira?” he asked Phoebe.
“Having options is never a bad thing.” She stabbed a piece of pancake. “We never decided anything for certain.”
“Mom said I could be a junior counselor,” Noah added. “Kate and I could take the train in together.”
“Or they can go in with me,” Phoebe said. “I’ve been thinking I need to spend more time there.”
Jake bet that Ira would love that. “Why don’t you just devote every minute you have to the halt and lame? Oh, wait. You do.”
They had set him up. Put forth the Hamptons and then he’d say okay to the Lower East Side? He didn’t slave so that his kids and wife could grime away down there while he came home to an empty house. He’d be damned if the three of them went off to save the world with cupcakes and basketballs, while he looked like Scrooge counting money in the back room.
“Of course they’re going to hire the kids. You practically support Mira House,” Jake said.
“That’s not the point.” Phoebe did her angry-finger thing, tapping on her thighs, probably pretending she was drumming against his head. “They should learn life outside Greenwich and the Hamptons; outside the entire money world.”
“Forget it, Mother Teresa. They don’t need to learn poverty—what’s required for the future is that you understand my business. You want to help more, then why don’t you really help? Of course you should give. Jesus, bring my checkbook, I’ll write any number you want. But the kids stay with me.” He turned to Kate. “You’re not going to Uncle Theo’s. He never should have asked you without checking in first. You’re coming to work with me. And you?” He looked at his son. “I’ll get you a job at the marina. That’s that.”
CHAPTER 16
Jake
October 1987
“Zip, please.”
Phoebe turned her back to him, peering over her shoulder. The gaping zipper revealed velvety skin curtained by black satin. Ownership, love, and admiration smacked into a collision of desire as he ran his finger from the hollow of her spine up to the fine hairs escaping her stern bun. In the hotel mirror, he saw the abstract painting, a slash of red and black, juxtaposed against his delicate wife.
The doc should have prescribed sex instead of pushing Prozac, although right now he could use both. His jaw was tight as the Tin Man’s before the oiling. Tonight he’d throw his Hail Mary pass, a chance at salvation in a world gone mad with new technology. Hooking potential Club members on the notion of guaranteed steady returns became difficult when men believed any computer-connected stock was bound for Microsoft glory.
Jake hated thinking how much he’d have if he’d actually bought shares during Microsoft’s initial public offering. Twenty-fucking-eight dollars per share on offering. Now, after splitting and rising ad nauseam, a share was worth $143. He’d be up fifteen million if he’d made the trades he purported.
Fuck it. His ass could be in the gutter just as easy. Might as well gamble in Vegas as play the market. Life would smooth out with his new legitimacy plan.